Shockley 


HELD  FOR  ORDERS 


Stories  of  Railroad  Life 


By  FRANK   H.  SPEARMAN 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BvJAYHAMBRIDGE 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY  S.  S.  McCLURE  Co. 
BY  MCCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  Co. 


To 

tfrancts  Cotoeal 


271408 


Contents 


THE   SWITCHMAN'S   STORY 

Page 
SHOCKLEY i 

THE   WIPER'S   STORY 

HOW    McGRATH    GOT    AN    ENGINE    ...          39 

THE  RO  ADM  ASTER'S  STORY 
THE  SPIDER  WATER 63 

THE   STRIKER'S   STORY 

McTERZA 107 

THE   DESPATCHER'S   STORY 
THE  LAST  ORDER 141 

THE  NIGHTMAN'S  STORY 
BULLHEAD  181 


viii  Contents 

THE  MASTER  MECHANIC'S  STORY 

Page 

DELAROO 209 

THE    OPERATOR'S   STORY 
DE  MOLAY  FOUR 247 

THE  TRAINMASTER'S  STORY 
OF  THE  OLD  GUARD 293 

THE  YELLOW  MAIL  STORY 
JIMMIE  THE  WIND 327 


Held    for    Orders 


The  Switchman's  Story 


SHOCKLEY 


The  Switchman's  Story 


SHOCKLEY 

HE  *s  rather  a  bad  lot,  I  guess,"  wrote  Bucks 
to  Callahan,  "  but  I  am  satisfied  of  one 
thing  —  you  can't  run  that  yard  with  a 
Sunday-school  superintendent.  He  won't  make  you 
any  trouble  unless  he  gets  to  drinking.  If  that 
happens,  don't  have  any  words  with  him."  Bucks 
underscored  three  times.  "Simply  crawl  into  a 
cyclone  cellar  and  wire  me.  Sending  you  eighteen 
loads  of  steel  to-night,  and  six  cars  of  ties.  Blair 
reports  section  10  ready  for  track  layers  and  Mear's 
outfit  moving  into  the  Palisade  Canon.  Push  the 
stuff  to  the  front." 

It  was  getting  dark,  and  Callahan  sat  in  that  part 
of  the  Benkleton  depot  he  called  the  office,  pulling 

3 


4  Held  for  Orders 

at  a  muddy  root  that  went  unaccountably  hot  in 
sudden  flashes.  He  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
leaving  his  foot  on  the  table,  and  looked  at  the  bowl 
resentfully,  wondering  again  if  there  could  be  pow 
der  in  that  infernal  tobacco  of  Rubedo's.  The  mouth 
piece  he  eyed  as  a  desperate  man  might  ponder  a 
final  shift. 

The  pipe  had  originally  come  from  God's  Coun 
try,  with  a  Beautiful  Amber  Mouthpiece,  and  a  Beau 
tiful  Bowl ;  but  it  was  a  present  from  his  sister  and 
had  been  bought  at  a  dry-goods  store.  Once  when 
thinking  —  or,  if  you  please,  when  not  thinking — 
Callahan  had  held  a  lighted  match  to  the  Beautiful 
Amber  Mouthpiece  instead  of  to  the  tobacco,  and 
in  the  fire  that  ensued  they  had  hard  work  to  save 
the  depot. 

Callahan  never  wrote  his  sister  about  it;  he 
thought  only  about  buying  pipes  at  dry-goods  stores, 
and  about  being,  when  they  exploded,  a  thousand 
miles  from  the  man  who  sold  them.  There  was 
plenty  in  that  to  think  about.  What  he  now  brought 
his  teeth  reluctantly  together  on  was  part  of  the  rub- 


The  Switchman's  Story  5 

her  tube  of  a  dismantled  atomizer;  in  happier  post- 
Christmas  days  a  toilet  fixture.  But  Callahan  had 
abandoned  the  use  of  bay  rum  after  shaving.  His 
razor  had  gone  to  the  scrap  and  on  Sunday  morn 
ings  he  merely  ran  a  pair  of  scissors  over  the  high 
joints  —  for  Callahan  was  railroading  —  and  on  the 
front. 

After  losing  the  mouthpiece  he  would  have  been 
completely  in  the  air  but  for  little  Chris  Oxen. 
Chris  was  Callahan's  section  gang.  His  name  was 
once  Ochsner,  but  that  wasn't  in  Benkleton.  Cal 
lahan  was  hurried  when  he  made  up  the  pay  roll  and 
put  it  Oxen,  as  being  better  United  States.  I  say 
United  States  because  Callahan  said  United  States, 
in  preference  to  English. 

Chris  had  been  in  America  only  three  years  ;  but 
he  had  been  in  Russia  three  hundred,  and  in  that 
time  had  learned  many  ways  of  getting  something 
out  of  nothing.  When  the  red-haired  despatcher 
after  the  explosion  cast  away  with  bitterness  the 
remains  of  the  pipe,  Chris  picked  it  up  and  by 
judicious  action  on  the  atomizer  figured  out  a  new 


6  Held  for  Orders 

mouthpiece  no  worse  than  the  original,  for  while 
the  second,  like  the  first,  was  of  rubber,  it  was  not 
of  the  explosive  variety. 

Chris  presented  the  remodelled  root  to  Callahan  as 
a  surprise ;  Callahan,  in  a  burst  of  gratitude,  pro 
moted  him  on  the  spot :  he  made  little  Chris  fore 
man.  It  didn't  bring  any  advance  in  pay — but 
there  was  the  honor.  To  be  foreman  was  an 
honor,  and  as  little  Chris  was  the  only  man  on  the 
yard  force,  he  became,  by  promotion,  foreman  of 
himself. 

So  Callahan  sat  thinking  of  the  ingenuity  of  Chris, 
reflecting  on  the  sting  of  construction  tobacco,  and 
studying  over  Bucks's  letter. 

The  yard  was  his  worry.  Not  that  it  was  much 
of  a  yard;  just  a  dozen  runs  off  the  lead  to  take 
the  construction  material  for  Callahan  to  distribute, 
fast  as  the  grade  was  pushed  westward.  The  trou 
ble  at  the  Benkleton  yard  came  from  without,  not 
from  within. 

The  road  was  being  pushed  into  the  cattle  country, 
and  it  was  all  'easy  till  they  struck  Benkleton.  Ben- 


The  Switchman's  Story  7 

kleton  was  just  a  hard  knot  on  the  Yellow  Grass 
trail :  a  squally,  sandy  cattle  town.  There  were 
some  bad  men  in  Benkleton ;  they  did  n't  bother 
often.  But  there  were  some  men  in  Benkleton 
who  thought  they  were  bad,  and  these  were 
a  source  of  constant  bedevilment  to  the  railroad 
men. 

Southwest  of  the  yard,  where  the  river  breaks 
sheer  into  the  bottoms,  there  hived  and  still  hives  a 
colony  of  railroad  laborers,  Russians.  They  have 
squatted  there,  burrowed  into  the  face  of  the  bench 
like  sand  swallows,  and  scraped  caves  out  for  them 
selves,  and  the  name  of  the  place  is  Little  Russia. 

This  was  in  the  troublous  days,  when  the  cowboys, 
homesick  for  evil,  would  ride  around  Little  Russia 
with  rope  and  gun,  and  scare  the  pioneers  cross-eyed. 
The  cattle  fellows  spent  the  entire  winter  months, 
all  sand  and  sunshine,  putting  up  schemes  to  worry 
Callahan  and  the  Little  Russians.  The  headquar 
ters  for  this  restless  gang  were  at  Pat  Barlie's  place, 
across  from  the  post  office  ;  it  was  there  that  the 
cowboys  loved  to  congregate.  To  Callahan,  Pat 


8  Held  for  Orders 

Barlie's  place  was  a  wasps'  nest;  but  to  Chris,  it 
was  a  den  of  wolves  —  and  of  a  dreader  sort  than 
Russian  wolves,  for  Barlie's  pack  never  slept. 

The  east  and  west  section  men  could  run  away 
from  them  on  hand  cars;  it  was  the  yardmen  who 
caught  it,  and  it  grew  so  bad  they  could  n't  keep 
a  switchman.  About  ten  o'clock  at  night,  after 
Number  Twenty-three  had  pulled  in  and  they  were 
distributing  a  trainload  of  bridge  timber,  a  switch 
man's  lantern  would  go  up  in  signal,  when  pist !  a 
bullet  would  knock  the  lamp  clean  out  of  his  hand, 
and  the  nerve  clean  out  of  his  head.  Handling  a 
light  in  the  Benkleton  yard  was  like  smoking  a  cel 
luloid  pipe  —  you  never  could  tell  when  it  would 
go  off. 

Cowboys  shot  away  the  lamps  faster  than  requisi 
tions  could  be  drawn  for  new  ones.  They  shot  the 
signals  off  the  switches,  and  the  lights  from  the  tops 
of  moving  trains.  Whenever  a  brakeman  showed 
a  flicker,  two  cowboys  stood  waiting  to  snuff  it. 
If  they  missed  the  lamp,  they  winged  the  brakeman. 
It  compelled  Bucks  after  awhile  to  run  trains  through 


The  Switchman's  Story  9 

Benkleton  without  showing  ever  a  light.  This, 
though  tough,  could  be  managed,  but  to  shunt  flats 
in  the  yard  at  night  with  no  light,  or  to  get  a  switch 
man  willing  to  play  young  Tell  to  Peg  Leg  Rey- 
nolds's  William  for  any  length  of  time,  was  impossible. 
At  last  Bucks,  on  whom  the  worry  reflected  at  head 
quarters,  swore  he  would  fight  them  with  fire,  and 
he  sent  Shockley.  Callahan  still  sat  speculating 
on  what  he  would  be  up  against  when  Shockley 
arrived. 

The  impression  Bucks's  letter  gave  him  —  know 
ing  Bucks  to  be  frugal  of  words  —  was  that  Shockley 
would  rise  up  with  cartridges  in  his  ears  and  bowie 
knives  dangling  from  his  watch  chain.  To  live  in 
fear  of  the  cowboys  was  one  thing ;  but  to  live  in 
fear  of  the  cowboys  on  the  one  hand,  anu  in  ter 
ror  of  a  yard  master  on  the  other,  seemed,  all  things 
considered,  confusing,  particularly  if  the  new  ally 
got  to  drinking  and  his  fire  scattered.  Just  then 
train  Fifty-nine  whistled.  Pat  Barlie's  corner  began 
to  sputter  its  salute.  Callahan  shifted  around  behind 
his  bombproof,  lit  his  powder  horn,  and  looking 


i  o  Held  for  Orders 

down  the  line  wondered  whether  Shockley  might 
be  on  that  train. 

It  was  not  till  the  next  night  though  that  a  tall, 
thinnish  chap,  without  visible  reasons  for  alighting, 
got  off  Fifty-nine  and  walked  tentatively  down  the 
platform.  At  the  ticket  office  he  asked  for  the  as 
sistant  superintendent. 

"  Out  there  on  the  platform  talking  to  the  con 
ductor." 

The  thin  fellow  emerged  and  headed  for  Callahan. 
Callahan  noticed  only  his  light,  springy  amble  and  his 
hatchet  face. 

«  Mr.  Callahan  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Bucks  sent  me  up  —  to  take  the  yard." 

"  What  's  your  name  ?  " 

«  Shockley." 

u  Step  upstairs.     I  '11  be  up  in  a  minute." 

Shockley  walked  back  into  the  depot  but  he  left  the 
copper-haired  assistant  superintendent  uncertain  as 
to  whether  it  was  really  over ;  whether  Shockley  had 
actually  arrived  or  not.  As  Callahan  studied  the 


The  Switchman's  Story  1 1 

claimant's  inoffensive  appearance,  walking  away,  he 
rather  thought  it  could  n't  be  over,  or  that  Bucks  was 
mistaken  ;  but  Bucks  never  made  a  mistake. 

Next  morning  at  seven,  the  new  yard  master  took 
hold.  Caliahan  had  intimated  that  the  night  air  in 
the  yard,  it  being  low  land,  was  miasmatic,  and  that 
Shockley  had  maybe  better  try  for  a  while  to  do  his 
switching  in  the  daytime.  Just  before  the  appointed 
hour  in  the  morning,  the  assistant  had  looked  out  on 
his  unlucky  yard  ;  he  thought  to  himself  that  if  that 
yard  did  n't  drive  a  man  to  drink  nothing  ever  would. 
Piled  shanty  high  with  a  bewildering  array  of  mate 
rial,  it  was  enough  to  take  the  heart  out  of  a  Denver 
switching  crew. 

While  he  stood  at  the  window  he  saw  their  plug 
switch  engine,  that  had  been  kicked  out  of  every 
other  yard  on  the  system,  wheeze  out  of  the  round 
house,  saw  the  new  yard  master  flirt  his  hand  at  the 
engineer,  and  swing  up  on  the  footboard.  But  the 
swing  —  it  made  Callahan's  heart  warm  to  him.  Not 
the  lubberly  jump  of  the  hoboes  that  had  worried  the 
life  out  of  him  all  summer,  even  when  the  cattlemen 


12  Held  for  Orders 

did  n't  bother.  It  was  the  swing  of  the  sailor  into 
the  shrouds,  of  the  Cossack  into  the  saddle,  of  the 
yacht  into  the  wind.  It  was  like  falling  down  or 
falling  up  or  falling  on  —  the  grace  of  a  mastery  of 
gravitation  — that  was  Shockley's  swing  on  the  foot 
board  of  the  yard  engine  as  it  shot  snorting  past  him. 

"He's  all  right,"  muttered  Callahan.  It  was 
enough. 

A  man  who  flipped  a  tender  like  that  was  not  like 
to  go  very  wrong  even  in  that  chaos  of  rails  and 
ties  and  stringers  and  coal. 

"  Now,"  continued  Callahan  to  himself,  timidly 
hopeful,  "  if  the  cuss  only  does  n't  get  to  drinking  !  " 
He  watched  apprehensively,  dreading  the  first  time 
he  should  see  him  entering  Pat  Barlie's  place,  but 
Shockley  did  n't  appear  to  know  Pat  had  a  place. 
The  cowboys,  too,  watched  him,  waiting  for  his 
lamp  to  gleam  at  night  down  in  the  yard,  but  their 
patience  was  strained  for  a  long  time.  Shockley  got 
all  his  work  done  by  daylight. 

To  the  surprise  of  Callahan,  and  probably  on  the 
principle  of  the  watched  pot,  the  whole  winter  went 


The  Switchman's  Story  1 3 

without  a  brush  between  Shockley  and  the  cowboys. 
Even  Peg  Leg  Reynolds  let  him  alone.  "  He  's  the 
luckiest  fellow  on  earth,"  remarked  Callahan  one  day 
at  McCloud  in  reply  to  a  question  from  Bucks  about 
Shockley.  "  There  has  n't  a  shot  been  fired  at  him 
all  winter." 

u  He  was  n't  always  lucky,"  commented  Bucks, 
signing  a  batch  of  letters. 

u  He  came  from  Chicago,"  Bucks  went  on,  after 
a  silence.  "  He  was  switching  there  on  the  c  Q_'  at 
the  time  of  the  stock-yards  riots.  Shockley  used  to 
drink  like  a  pirate.  I  never  knew  just  the  right  of 
it.  I  understood  it  was  in  a  brawl  —  anyway,  he 
killed  a  man  there;  shot  him,  and  had  to  get  away 
in  a  hurry.  I  was  train  master.  Shockley  was  a 
striker ;  but  I  Jd  always  found  him  decent,  and 
when  his  wife  came  to  me  about  it  I  helped 
her  out  a  little ;  she 's  dead  since.  His  record 
is  n't  just  right  back  there  yet.  There 's  some 
thing  about  the  shooting  hanging  over  him.  I 
never  set  eyes  on  the  fellow  again  till  he  struck 
me  for  a  job  at  McCloud ;  then  I  sent  him  up  to 


14  Held  for  Orders 

you.  He  claimed  he'd  quit  drinking  —  guess  he 
had.  Long  as  he  's  behaving  himself  I  believe  in 
giving  him  a  chance  —  h'm?" 

It  really  was  n't  any  longer  a  case  of  giving  him  a 
chance;  rather  of  whether  they  could  get  on  without 
him.  When  the  Colorado  Pacific  began  racing  us 
into  Denver  that  summer,  it  began  to  crowd  even 
Shockley  to  keep  the  yard  clean  ;  he  saw  he  would 
have  to  have  help. 

"  Chris,  what  do  they  give  you  for  tinkering  up 
the  ties  ?  "  asked  Shockley  one  day. 

«  Dollar  an'  a  half." 

"Why  don't  you  take  hold  switching  with  me 
and  get  three  dollars  ? " 

Chris  was  thunderstruck.  First  he  said  Callahan 
would  n't  let  him,  but  Shockley  u  guessed  yes." 
Then  Chris  figured.  To  save  the  last  of  the  hun 
dred  dollars  necessary  to  get  the  woman  and  the 
babies  over  —  it  could  be  done  in  three  months  in 
stead  of  six,  if  only  Callahan  would  listen.  But  when 
Shockley  talked  Callahan  always  listened,  and  when 
he  asked  for  a  new  switchman  he  got  him.  And 


The  Switchman's  Story  I  5 

Chris  got  his  three;  to  him  a  sum  unspeakable. 
By  the  time  the  woman  and  the  children  arrived  in 
the  fall,  Chris  would  have  died  for  Shockley. 

The  fall  that  saw  the  woman  and  the  stunted 
subjects  of  the  Czar  stowed  away  under  the  bench 
in  Little  Russia  brought  also  the  cowboys  down  from 
Montana  to  bait  the  Russians. 

One  stormy  night,  when  Chris  thought  it  was  per 
fectly  safe  to  venture  up  to  Rubedo's  after  groceries, 
the  cowboys  caught  him  and  dragged  him  over  to 
Pat  Barlie's. 

It  was  seven  when  they  caught  him,  and  by  nine 
they  had  put  him  through  every  pace  that  civiliza 
tion  could  suggest.  Peg  Leg  Reynolds,  as  always, 
master  of  ceremonies,  then  ordered  him  tied  to  the 
stove.  When  it  was  done,  the  cowboys  got  into 
a  big  circle  for  a  dance.  The  fur  on  Chris's  coat 
had  already  begun  to  sizzle,  when  the  front  door 
opened.  Shockley  walked  in. 

Straight,  in  his  ambling,  hurried  way,  he  walked 
past  the  deserted  bar  through  the  ring  of  cowboys  at 
the  rear  to  Chris  frying  against  the  stove,  and  began 


1 6  Held  for  Orders 

cutting  him  loose.  Through  every  knot  that  his 
knife  slit  he  sent  a  very  loud  and  very  bad  word,  and 
no  sooner  had  he  freed  Chris  than  he  jerked  him  by 
the  collar,  as  if  quarreling  with  him,  toward  the 
back  door,  which  was  handy,  and  before  the  cow 
boys  got  wind  he  had  shoved  him  through  it. 

"  Hold  on  there ! "  cried  Peg  Leg  Reynolds, 
when  it  was  just  too  late.  Chris  was  out  of  it, 
and  Shockley  turned  alone. 

"All  right,  partner;  what  is  it  ? "  he  asked  amiably. 

"  You  've  got  a  ripping  nerve." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Shockley." 

"  Can  you  dance  ?  " 

"  No." 

It  was  Peg  Leg's  opportunity.  He  drew  his  gun. 
"  I  reckon  maybe  you  can.  Try  it,"  he  added,  point 
ing  the  suggestion  with  the  pistol.  Shockley  looked 
foolish ;  he  did  n't  begin  tripping  soon  enough,  and 
a  bullet  from  the  cowboy's  gun  splintered  the  base 
board  at  his  feet.  Shockley  attempted  to  shuffle. 


The  Switchman's  Story  17 

To  any  one  who  did  n't  know  him  it  looked  funny. 
But  Peg  Leg  was  a  rough  dancing  master,  and 
before  he  said  enough  an  ordinary  man  would  have 
dropped  exhausted.  Shockley,  breathing  a  good  bit 
quicker,  only  steadied  himself  against  the  bar. 

u  Take  off  your  hat  before  gentlemen,"  cried  the 
cowboy.  Shockley  hesitated,  but  he  did  pull  off 
his  cap. 

"  That 's  more  like  it.     What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"Shockley." 

"  Shockley  ?  "  echoed  Reynolds  with  a  burst  of 
iange  amenities.  "  Well,  Shockley,  you  can't  help 
/our  name.  Drink  for  once  in  your  life  with  a  man 
of  breeding  —  my  name's  Reynolds.  Pat,  set  out 
the  good  bottle  —  this  guy  pays,"  exclaimed  Peg 
Leg,  wheeling  to  the  bar. 

"  What  '11  it  be  ? "  asked  Pat  Barlie  of  Shockley, 
as  he  deftly  slid  a  row  of  glasses  in  front  of  the  men 
of  breeding. 

"  Ginger  ale  for  me,"  suggested  Shockley  mildly. 
The  cowboys  put  up  a  single  yell.  Ginger  ale ! 
It  was  too  funny. 

2 


1 8  Held  for  Orders 

Reynolds,  choking  with  contempt,  pointed  to  the 
yard  master's  glass.  "  Fill  it  with  whiskey,"  he 
shouted.  "Fill  it,  Pat !  "  he  repeated,  as  Shockley 
leaned  undecidedly  against  the  bar.  The  yard 
master  held  out  the  glass,  and  the  bar  keeper  began 
to  pour.  Shockley  looked  at  the  liquor  a  moment  j 
then  he  looked  at  Reynolds,  who  fronted  him  gun 
in  one  hand  and  red  water  in  the  other. 

«  Drink  ! " 

Shockley  paused,  looked  again  at  the  whiskey  and 
drew  the  glass  towards  him  with  the  curving  hand 
of  a  drinker.  "You  want  me  to  drink  this?  "  he 
half  laughed,  turning  on  his  baiter. 

"  I  did  n't  say  so,  did  I  ?  1  said  DRINK !  " 
roared  Peg  Leg. 

Everybody  looked  at  Shockley.  He  stood  finger 
ing  the  glass  quietly.  Somehow  everybody,  drunk 
or  sober,  looked  at  Shockley.  He  glanced  around 
at  the  crowd ;  other  guns  were  creeping  from  their 
holsters.  He  pushed  the  glass  back,  smiling. 

"  I  don't  drink  whiskey,  partner,"  said  Shockley 
gently. 


The  Switchman's  Story  19 

"  You  '11  drink  that  whiskey,  or  I  '11  put  a  little 
hole  into  you  !  " 

Shockley  reached  good-naturedly  for  the  glass, 
threw  the  liquor  on  the  floor,  and  set  it  back  on  the  bar. 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Shockley.    It  confused  Reynolds. 

u  A  man  that  '11  waste  good  whiskey  ought  n't  t' 
live,  anyhow,"  he  muttered,  fingering  his  revolver 
nervously.  u  You  've  spoiled  my  aim.  Throw 
up  your  hat,"  he  yelled.  "  I  '11  put  a  hole  through 
that  to  begin  with." 

Instead,  Shockley  put  his  cap  back  on  his  head. 

"  Put  a  hole  through  it  there,"  said  he.  Reynolds 
set  down  his  glass,  and  Shockley  waited ;  it  was  the 
cowboy  who  hesitated. 

"  Where 's  your  nerve  ?  "  asked  the  railroad  man. 
The  gun  covered  him  with  a  flash  and  a  roar. 
Reynolds,  whatever  his  faults,  was  a  shot.  His 
bullet  cut  cleanly  through  the  crown,  and  the  pow 
der  almost  burnt  Shockley's  face.  The  switchman 
recovered  himself  instantly,  and  taking  off  his  cap 
laughed  as  he  examined  the  hole. 

"  Done  with  me  ?  "  he  asked  evenly,  cap  in  hand. 


20  Held  for  Orders 

Peg  Leg  drained  his  glass  before  he  spoke.  u  Get 
out !  "  he  snapped.  The  switchman  started  on  the 
word  for  the  front  door.  When  he  opened  it, 
everybody  laughed  —  but  Shockley. 

Maybe  an  hour  later  Reynolds  was  sitting  back  of 
the  stove  in  a  card  game,  when  a  voice  spoke  at 
his  ear.  "  Get  up ! "  Reynolds  looked  around  into 
a  pistol;  behind  it  stood  Shockley,  pleasant.  "Get 
up  !  "  he  repeated.  Nobody  had  seen  him  come  in ; 
but  there  he  was,  and  with  an  absolutely  infantile 
gun,  a  mere  baby  gun,  in  the  yellow  light,  but  it 
shone  like  bright  silver. 

Reynolds  with  visible  embarrassment  stood    up. 

"  Throw  your  cannon  into  the  stove,  Reynolds, 
you  won't  need  it,"  suggested  Shockley.  Rey 
nolds  looked  around ;  there  appeared  to  be  no 
hopeful  alternative :  the  drop  looked  very  cold ; 
not  a  cowboy  interposed.  Under  convoy,  Rey 
nolds  stumped  over  to  the  stove  and  threw  in  his 
gun,  but  the  grace  of  the  doing  was  bad. 

"  Get  up  there  on  the  bar  and  dance ;  hustle  !  " 
urged  Shockley.  They  had  to  help  the  confused 


The  Switchman's  Story  21 

cowboy  up ;  and  when  he  stood  shamefaced,  look 
ing  down  on  the  scene  of  his  constant  triumphs, 
and  did  a  painful  single  foot,  marking  time  with 
his  peg,  the  cowboys,  who  had  stood  their  own 
share  of  his  bullying,  roared.  Shockley  did  n't 
roar;  only  stood  with  busy  eyes  where  he  could 
cover  any  man  on  demand,  not  forgetting  even  Pat 
Barlie. 

Peg  Leg,  who  had  danced  so  many  in  his  day, 
danced,  and  his  roasting  gun  sputtered  an  accom 
paniment  from  the  stove;  but  as  Shockley,  who 
stood  in  front  of  it,  paid  no  attention  to  the 
fusillade  of  bullets,  good  form  prevented  others 
from  dodging.  "  That  '11  do ;  get  down.  Come 
here,  Chris,"  called  Shockley.  Chris  Oxen,  greatly 
disturbed,  issued  from  an  obscure  corner. 

"  Get  down  on  your  knees,"  exclaimed  the  yard 
master,  jerking  Reynolds  with  a  chilly  twist  in 
front  of  the  frightened  Russian.  "  Get  on  your 
knees ;  right  where  I  threw  your  whiskey,"  and 
Shockley,  crowding  Reynolds  down  to  his  humilia 
tion,  dropped  for  the  first  time  into  range  civilities 


22  Held  for  Orders 

himself,  and  the  shame  and  the  abasement  of  it 
were  very  great. 

"  Boys,"  said  the  yard  master,  with  one  restless 
eye  on  Reynolds  and  one  on  everybody  else,  as  he 
pointed  at  Chris,  "  this  man's  coat  was  burnt  up. 
He 's  a  poor  devil,  and  his  money  comes  hard. 
Chip  in  for  a  new  coat.  I  've  nothing  against  any 
man  that  don't  want  to  give,  but  Reynolds  must 
pass  the  hat.  Take  mine,  you  coyote." 

Nearly  everybody  contributed  as  Reynolds  went 
round.  Shockley  made  no  comments.  u  Count 
it,"  he  commanded,  when  the  fallen  monarch  had 
finished ;  and  when  the  tale  was  made,  Shockley 
told  Pat  Barlie  to  put  in  as  much  more  as  the  cap 
held,  and  he  did  so. 

"  There,  Chris ;  go  home.  I  don't  like  you," 
added  Shockley,  insolently,  turning  on  Reynolds. 
"  You  don't  know  what  fun  is.  This  town  won't 
hold  you  and  me  after  to-night.  You  can  take  it 
or  you  can  leave  it,  but  the  first  time  I  ever  put 
eyes  on  you  again  one  of  us  will  cash  in." 

He  backed  directly  towards  the  front  door  and  out. 


The  Switchman's  Story  23 

Peg  Leg  Reynolds  took  only  the  night  to  decide ; 
next  day  he  hit  the  trail.  The  nervy  yard  master 
he  might  have  wiped  out  if  he  had  stayed,  but  the 
disgrace  of  kneeling  before  the  dog  of  a  Russian 
was  something  never  to  be  wiped  out  in  the  annals 
of  Benkleton.  Peg  Leg  moved  on  ;  and  thereafter 
cowboys  took  occasion  to  stop  Shockley  on  the 
street  and  jolly  him  on  the  way  he  did  the  one- 
legged  bully,  and  the  lights  were  shot  no  more. 

The  railroad  men  swore  by  the  new  yard  master; 
the  Russians  took  their  cigarettes  from  their  mouths 
and  touched  their  caps  when  Shockley  passed ; 
Callahan  blessed  his  name ;  but  little  Chris  wor 
shiped  him. 

One  day  Alfabet  Smith  dropped  off  at  Benkleton 
from  Omaha  headquarters.  Alfabet  was  the  only 
species  of  lizard  on  the  pay  roll  —  he  was  the 
West  End  spotter.  "  Who  is  that  slim  fellow  ?  " 
he  asked  of  Callahan  as  Shockley  flew  by  on  the 
pilot  board  of  an  engine. 

"That 's  Shockley." 

"  Oh,  that 's  Shockley,  is  it  ? " 


24  Held  for  Orders 

But  he  could  say  little  things  in  a  way  to  make  a 
man  prick  hot  all  over. 

«  Yes,  that 's  Shockley.  Why  ?  "  asked  Callahan 
with  a  dash  of  acid. 

"  Nothing,  only  he 's  a  valuable  man  ;  he  's 
wanted,  Shockley  is,"  smiled  Alfabet  Smith,  but  his 
smile  would  freeze  tears. 

Callahan  took  it  up  short.  "  Look  here,  Alfabet. 
Keep  off  Shockley." 

«  Why  ? " 

"  Why  ?  Because  you  and  I  will  touch,  head 
on,  if  you  don't." 

Smith  said  nothing ;  he  was  used  to  that  sort. 
The  next  time  Bucks  was  up,  his  assistant  told  him 
of  the  incident. 

"  If  he  bothers  Shockley,"  Bucks  said, "  we  '11  get 
his  scalp,  that 's  all.  He  'd  better  look  after  his 
conductors  and  leave  our  men  alone." 

"I  notice  Shockley  isn't  keeping  his  frogs 
blocked,"  continued  Bucks,  reverting  to  other  mat 
ters.  u  That  won't  do.  I  want  every  frog  in  the  yard 
blocked  and  kept  blocked,  and  tell  him  I  said  so." 


The  Switchman's  Story  25 

But  the  frog-blocking  was  not  what  worried 
Shockley  ;  his  push  was  to  keep  the  yard  clean,  for 
the  month  of  December  brought  more  stuff  twice 
over  than  was  ever  poured  into  the  front-end  yard 
before.  Chris,  though,  had  developed  into  a  great 
switchman,  and  the  two  never  let  the  work  get 
ahead. 

So  it  came  that  Little  Russia  honored  Chris  and 
his  big  pay  check  above  most  men.  Shockley  stood 
first  in  Little  Russia ;  then  the  CZAR,  then  Chris, 
then  Callahan.  Queen  Victoria  and  Bismarck  might 
have  admirers  ;  but  they  were  not  in  it  under  the 
bench. 

When  the  Russian  holidays  came,  down  below, 
Chris  concluded  that  the  celebration  would  be  merely 
hollow  without  Shockley  ;  for  was  not  the  very  exist 
ence  of  Little  Russia  due  to  him  ?  All  the  growth, 
all  the  prosperity  —  what  was  it  due  to  ?  Protection. 
What  was  the  protection  ?  Shockley.  There  were 
brakemen  who  argued  that  protection  came  from  the 
tariff;  but  they  never  made  any  converts  in  Little 
Russia,  where  the  inhabitants  could  be  induced  to 


26  Held  for  Orders 

vote  for  president  only  on  the  assurance  that  Shockley 
was  running. 

"  Well,  what's  the  racket  anyhow,  Chris  ?  "  de 
manded  Shockley  lazily,  after  Cross-Eyes  trying  to 
get  rid  of  the  invitation  to  the  festivities  had  sput 
tered  switch-English  five  minutes  at  him. 

"  Ve  got  Chrismus  by  us,"  explained  Chris  des 
perately. 

u  Christmas,"  repeated  Shockley  grimly.  "  Christ 
mas.  Why,  man,  Christmas  don't  come  nowhere 
on  earth  in  January.  You  want  to  wind  up  your 
calendar.  Where  'd  you  get  them  shoes  ?  " 

"  Dollar  sefenty-vife." 

"Where?" 

"  Rubedo." 

u  And  don't  you  know  a  switchman  ought  n't  t* 
put  his  feet  in  flatboats  ?  Don't  you  know  some  day 
you  '11  get  your  foot  stuck  in  a  tongue  or  a  guard  ? 
Then  where  '11  you  be,  Dutch,  with  a  string  of  flats 
rolling  down  on  you,  eh  ?  " 

However,  Chris  stuck  for  his  request.  He 
would  n't  take  no  for  an  answer.  Next  day  he 
tired  Shockley  out. 


The  Switchman's  Story  27 

"Well,  for  God's  sake  let  up,  Chris,"  said  the  yard 
master  at  last.  "  I  '11  come  down  a  while  after 
Twenty-three  comes  in.  Get  back  early  after  sup 
per,  and  we  '11  make  up  Fifty-five  and  let  the  rest 

g°-" 

It  was  a  pretty  night ;  pretty  enough  over  the  yard 

for  anybody's  Christmas,  Julian  or  Gregorian.  No 
snow,  but  a  moon,  and  a  full  one,  rising  early  over 
the  Arikaree  bluffs,  and  a  frost  that  bit  and  sparkled, 
and  the  north  wind  asleep  in  the  sand  hills. 

Shockley,  after  supper,  snug  in  a  pea-jacket  and  a 
storm  cap,  rode  with  the  switch  engine  down  from 
the  roundhouse.  Chris,  in  his  astrakhan  reefer  and 
turban,  walking  over  from  the  dugouts  in  Rubedo's 
new  shoes,  flipped  the  footboard  at  the  stock-yard 
with  almost  the  roll  of  Shockley  himself. 

Happily  for  Christmas  in  Little  Russia,  Twenty- 
three  pulled  in  on  time ;  but  it  was  long  and  heavy 
that  night.  It  brought  coal  and  ties,  and  the  stuff 
for  the  Fort  Rawlins  depot,  and  a  batch  of  bridge 
steel  they  had  been  waiting  two  weeks  for—  mostly? 
Cherry  Creek  stuff —  eleven  cars  of  it. 


28  Held  for  Orders 

The  minute  the  tired  engine  was  cut  off  the  long 
train,  up  ran  the  little  switch  engine  and  snapped 
at  the  headless  monster  like  a  coyote. 

Out  came  the  coal  with  a  clatter;  out  came  the 
depot  stuff  with  a  sheet  of  flame  through  the  goat's 
flues —  shot  here,  shot  there,  shot  yonder —  flying 
down  this  spur  and  down  that  and  the  other,  like 
stones  from  a  catapult ;  and  the  tough-connected, 
smut-faced,  blear-eyed  yard  engine  coughed  and 
snorted  and  spit  a  shower  of  sparks  and  soot  and  cin 
ders  up  into  the  Christmas  air.  She  darted  and  dodged 
and  jerked,  and  backed'  up  and  down  and  across  the 
lead,  and  never  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  took  her 
eye  off*  Shockley's  lamp.  Shivering  and  clanging 
and  bucking  with  steam  and  bell  and  air,  but  always 
with  one  smoky  eye  on  Shockley's  lamp,  until 
Twenty-three  was  wrecked  clean  to  the  caboose, 
and  the  switch  engine  shot  down  the  main  line 
with  the  battered  way -car  in  her  claws  like  a  hawk 
with  a  prairie  dog. 

Then  there  was  only  the  west-bound  freight, 
Fifty-five,  to  make  up  with  the  Fort  Rawlins  stuff 


The  Switchman's  Story          29 

and  the  Cherry  Creek  steel,  which  was  "  rushj'and  a 
few  cars  of  ties  flung  on  behind  on  general  principles. 
It  was  quick  work  now  —  sorting  and  moving  the 
bridge  steel —  half  an  hour  for  an  hour's  work,  with 
the  north  wind  waking  at  the  clatter  and  sweeping 
a  bank  of  cloud  and  sand  across  the  valley.  Shock- 
ley  and  Chris  and  the  goat  crew  put  at  it  like  black 
ants.  There  was  releasing  and  setting  and  kicking 
and  splitting,  and  once  in  a  while  a  flying  switch, 
dead  against  the  rubrics  $  and  at  last  the  whole 
train  of  steel  was  in  line,  clean  as  the  links  of  a 
sprocket,  and  ready  to  run  in  on  the  house-track  for 
the  caboose. 

For  that  run  Chris  set  the  east  house-track  switch, 
crossed  the  track,  and  swung  a  great  circle  with  his 
lamp  for  the  back.  To  get  over  to  the  switch 
again,  he  started  to  recross  the  track.  In  the  dark 
his  ankle  turned  on  a  lump  of  coal ;  he  recovered 
lightly,  but  the  misstep  sent  his  other  foot  wide, 
and  with  a  bit  of  a  jolt  Rubedo's  new  shoe  slipped 
into  the  frog. 

Up  the  track  he  heard  a  roll  of  stormy  coughs  from 


30  Held  for  Orders 

the  engine  gathering  push  to  shove  the  string  of 
flats  down.  They  were  coming  towards  him,  ovei 
the  spot  where  he  stood,  on  his  signal ;  and  he 
quietly  tried  to  loosen  his  heel. 

The  engine's  drivers  let  go,  and  she  roared  a 
steaming  oath,  and  Chris  could  hear  it ;  but  he 
was  glad,  for  his  heel  would  not  work  quietly  out 
of  the  frog ;  it  stuck.  Then  the  engineer,  un 
ruffled,  pulled  at  his  sand  lever,  and  his  engine 
snorted  again  and  her  driver  tires  bit,  and  slowly 
she  sent  the  long  train  of  steel  down  on  Chris's 
switch;  he  heard  the  frosty  flanges  grinding  on 
the  face  of  the  rails  as  he  tried  to  loosen  his 
foot. 

Coolly,  first,  like  a  confident  man  in  a  quicksand ; 
soon,  with  alarm  running  into  fright.  But  there 
was  time  enough ;  the  head  car  was  four  or  five 
lengths  above  the  switch  and  coming  very,  very 
slowly,  heavy-like,  and  squeaking  stiffly  under  its 
load,  yet  coming  ;  and  he  wrenched  harder,  but  his 
foot  stuck.  Then  he  yelled  for  Shockley.  Shock- 
ley  had  gone  over  to  open  the  caboose  switch; 


The  Switchman's  Story  31 

Shockley  could  n't  hear,  and  he  knew  it.  And  he 
yelled  again. 

The  sweat  broke  over  him  as  he  turned  and  twisted. 
The  grip  of  the  frog  seemed  to  stifle  him  ;  half  the 
time  was  gone  ;  the  near  truck  wheels  screeched  two 
car-lengths  away  :  and  the  switchman  played  his  last 
card.  Time  and  time  again  Shockley  had  told  him 
what  to  do  if  that  moment  came  in  the  night ;  had 
told  him  to  throw  his  lamp  in  the  air  like  a  rocket. 
But  Chris  had  forgotten  all  that  till  the  flat  dropped 
heavily  on  the  tongue  in  front  of  him  ;  then  he  threw 
his  lamp  like  a  rocket  high  into  the  night. 

No  help  came.  He  raised  his  arms  frantically 
above  his  head,  and  his  cries  cut  the  wind.  Des 
perate  at  last,  he  threw  himself  flat  to  lie  outside 
the  rail,  to  save  all  but  a  foot;  but  the  frog  held 
him,  and  crying  horribly  he  struggled  back  to  his 
feet,  only  to  sink  again  half  crazy  to  the  ground. 
%As  his  senses  left  him  he  was  hardly  aware  of  a 
stinging  pain  in  his  foot,  of  a  wrench  at  his  leg,  an 
instant  arm  round  his  back,  and  his  yard  master's 
voice  in  his  ear. 


32  Held  for  Orders 

"  Jump  !  "  screamed  Shockley. 

Chris,  scrambling  frantically  on  the  deadly  rails, 
unable  to  jump,  felt  himself  picked  from  the  ground, 
heard  a  choke  in  the  throat  at  his  ear,  and  he  was 
flung  like  a  drawbar  through  the  dark.  Shockley 
had  passed  a  knife  blade  from  vamp  to  sole,  slit 
the  Russian's  clumsy  shoe,  jerked  his  foot  from  it, 
and  thrown  him  bodily  into  the  clear. 

Chris  staggered  panting  to  his  feet.  Already  the 
steel  was  moving  slowly  over  the  switch ;  he  heard 
the  sullen  pounding  of  the  trucks  on  the  contact ; 
a  lantern,  burning  yet,  lay  on  its  side  near  the 
stand  —  it  was  Shockley's  lamp.  Chris  looked 
wildly  around  for  his  yard  master;  called  out; 
called  Shockley's  name ;  listened.  No  scream,  no 
groan,  no  cry,  no  answer ;  no  sound,  but  just  the 
steady  pounding  of  the  wheels  over  the  contact. 
The  little  switchman  screamed  again  in  a  frenzy, 
and  turning,  raced  stumbling  up  the  track  to  the 
cab.  He  swung  into  it,  and  by  signs  made  the 
engineer  shut  off.  He  tried  to  talk,  and  only 
stammered  a  lingo  of  switch-pidgin  and  the  name 


The  Switchman's  Story  33 

of  Shockley.  They  could  n't  understand  it  all,  but 
they  shut  off  with  faces  pinched  and  sallow,  threw 
open  the  furnace  door,  and  grabbing  their  lanterns 
ran  back.  The  fireman  on  his  knees  held  his 
Limp  out  under  the  flat  that  spanned  the  contact ; 
he  drew  shrinking  back,  and  rising,  started  on  the 
run  for  the  depot  to  rouse  Callahan. 

It  was  Callahan  who  pulled  the  pin  a  moment  later, 
Chris  shivering  like  a  rabbit  at  his  side.  It  was 
Callahan  who  gave  the  slow  pull-ahead  order  that 
cut  the  train  in  two  at  the  frog,  and  Callahan  who 
stepped  wavering  from  the  gap  that  opened  behind 
the  receding  flat  —  back  from  something  between 
the  rails  —  back  to  put  his  hands  blindly  out 
for  the  target-rod,  and  unsteadily  upon  it.  He 
heard  Shockley  breathing. 

Some  carried  the  headlight  back,  and  some  tore  the 
door  ofF  a  box  car,  and  they  got  him  on.  They 
carried  him  unevenly,  stumbling,  over  to  the  depot. 
They  laid  him  on  Callahan's  mattress  in  the  wait 
ing  room,  and  the  men  stood  all  about  him ;  but 
the  only  sound  was  his  breathing,  and  inside  under 
3 


34  Held  for  Orders 

the  lamp  the  receiver,  clicking,  clicking,  clicking, 
of  Bucks  and  the  company  surgeon  coming  on  a 
special  ahead  of  Fifty-nine. 

They  twisted  tourniquets  into  his  quivering  flesh, 
and  with  the  light  dying  in  his  eyes  they  put  whiskey 
to  his  lips.  But  he  turned  his  head  and  spit  it  from 
his  mouth.  Then  he  looked  from  face  to  face  about 
him  —  to  the  engineer  and  to  the  fireman,  and  to 
little  Chris  and  to  Callahan,  and  his  lips  moved. 

Chris  bent  over  him,  but  try  as  he  would  he  could 
not  catch  the  words.  And  Callahan  listened  and 
watched  and  waited. 

"  Block  — block  —  "  said  Shockley's  lips.  And 
Callahan  wiped  them  slowly  and  bent  close  again 
and  put  his  ear  over  them.  "  Block  —  block  —  the 
-frogs." 

And  Shockley  died. 

They  lifted  the  mattress  into  the  baggage  room  ; 
Callahan  drew  over  it  a  crumpled  sheet.  A  lantern 
left,  burned  on  the  checking  desk,  but  the  men,  ex 
cept  Chris,  went  their  ways.  Chris  hung  irresolute 
around  the  open  door. 


The  Switchman's  Story  35 

The  special  pulled  in,  and  with  the  shoes  wringing 
fire  from  her  heels  as  she  slowed,  Bucks  and  a 
man  following  close  sprang  from  the  step  of  the 
coach.  Callahan  met  them ;  shook  his  head. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Fifty-nine  whistled  for  the 
yard ;  but  in  the  yard  all  was  dark  and  still.  One 
man  got  off  Fifty-nine  that  night.  Carrying  his 
little  valise  in  his  hand,  he  walked  in  and  out  of  the 
depot,  hanging  on  the  edges  of  the  grouping  men, 
who  still  talked  of  the  accident.  After  hearing,  he 
walked  alone  into  the  baggage  room,  and  with  his 
valise  in  his  hand  drew  back  the  edge  of  the  sheet 
and,  standing,  looked.  Afterward  he  paused  at  the 
door,  and  spoke  to  a  man  that  was  fixing  a  lantern. 

"What  was  his  name  ?" 

«  Shockley." 

"  Shockley  ?  " 

"Yes." 

u  Yard  master  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Know  him  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  No,  I  guess  not."  He  walked  away  with 
his  valise,  and  drew  his  coat  collar  up  in  the  wind 


36  Held  for  Orders 

that  swept  the  platform.  "I  guess  I  don't  want 
him,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  I  guess  they  don't 
want  him  ;  not  now."  And  he  went  back  to  the 
man  and  asked  when  a  train  left  again  for  Chicago. 
He  had  a  warrant  for  Shockley ;  but  Shockley's 
warrant  had  been  served. 

After  the  others  had  gone,  Bucks  and  Callahan  and 
the  surgeon  talked  together  in  the  watting  room, 
and  Chris  hanging  by, blear-eyed  and  helpless,  looked 
from  one  to  the  other :  showed  his  foot  when  Cal 
lahan  pointed,  and  sat  patient  while  the  surgeon 
stitched  the  slit  where  Shockley's  blade  had  touched 
the  bone.  Then  he  stood  again  and  listened.  While 
any  one  talked  Chris  would  listen  ;  silent  and  help 
less,  just  listening.  And  when  Bucks  had  gone 
up  stairs,  and  the  surgeon  had  gone  up  stairs,  and 
Callahan,  tired  and  sick,  had  gone  up  stairs,  and  only 
the  operator  sat  under  his  lamp  at  the  table,  Chris 
stood  back  in  the  gloom  in  front  of  the  stove  and 
poked  stealthily  at  the  fire.  When  it  blazed  he 
dropped  big  chunks  of  smutty  coal  in  on  it,  and 
wiped  his  frost-bitten  nose  with  the  back  of  his 


The  Switchman's  Story  37 

dirty  hand,  and  looked  toward  the  baggage  room 
door  and  listened  —  listened  for  a  cry,  or  a  sound, 
or  for  that  fearful,  fearful  breathing,  such  breathing 
as  he  had  not  been  hearing  before.  But  no  cry,  no 
sound,  no  stertorous  breath  came  out  of  the  dark 
ness,  and  from  under  the  lamp  in  front  of  the 
operator  only  the  sounder  clicked,  always  talking, 
talking,  talking — talking  queer  things  to  Russian 
ears. 

So  Chris  drew  his  cap  a  little  lower,  for  so  he  always 
began,  pulled  mechanically  from  his  pocket  'a  time 
table,  tore  off  a  strip,  and  holding  it  carefully  open, 
sprinkled  a  few  clippings  of  tobacco  upon  it,  and 
rolled  his  cigarette.  He  tucked  it  between  his  lips ; 
it  was  company  for  the  silence,  and  he  could  more 
easily  stop  the  listening.  But  he  did  not  light ; 
only  pulled  his  cap  again  a  little  lower,  buttoned 
close  his  reefer,  looked  at  his  bandaged  foot,  picked 
up  his  lamp,  and  started  home. 

It  was  dark,  and  the  wind  from  the  north  was  bitter, 
but  he  made  a  great  detour  into  the  teeth  of  it  — • 
around  by  the  coal  chutes,  a  long  way  round,  a  long 


38  Held  for  Orders 

way  from  the  frog  of  the  east  house-track  switch;  and 
the  cold  stung  his  face  as  he  limped  heavily  on.  At 
last  by  the  ice  house  he  turned  south,  and  reaching 
the  face  of  the  bench  paused  a  moment,  hesitating, 
on  the  side  of  the  earthen  stairs ;  it  was  very  dark. 
After  a  bit  he  walked  slowly  down  and  pushed  open 
the  door  of  his  dugout.  It  was  dark  inside,  and 
cold  ;  the  fire  was  out.  The  children  were  asleep  ; 
the  woman  was  asleep. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  put  out  his  lamp. 
There  was  no  Christmas  that  night  in  Little  Russia. 


Held    for    Orders 


The  Wiper's   Story- 


How  McGRATH  GOT 
AN   ENGINE 


The  Wiper's  Story 


HOW  McGRATH    GOT 
AN    ENGINE 

THIS  came  about  through  there  being  whis 
kers  on  the  rails.     It  may  not  be  gen 
erally  understood  that  whiskers  grow  on 
steel  rails ;  curious  as  it  seems,  they  do.     More 
over,  on  steel  rails  they  are  dangerous,  and,  at  times, 
exceedingly  dangerous. 

Do  not  infer  that  all  steel  rails  grow  whiskers;  nor 
is  it,  as  one  might  suppose,  only  the  old  rails  that  sport 
them.  The  youngest  rail  on  the  curve  may  boast  as 
stout  a  beard  as  the  oldest  rail  on  the  tangent,  and  one 
just  as  gray.  They  flourish,  too,  in  spite  of  orders  ; 
for  while  whiskers  are  permitted  on  engineers  and 
tolerated  on  conductors,  they  are  never  encouraged 
on  rails.  Nature,  however,  provides  the  whiskers, 


42  Held  for  Orders 

regardless  of  discipline,  and,  what  is  more,  shaves 
them  herself. 

Their  culture  depends  on  conditions.  Some 
months  grow  better  whiskers  than  others  :  September 
is  famous  for  whiskers,  while  July  grows  very  few. 
Whiskers  will  grow  on  steel  rails  in  the  air  of  a  single 
night ;  but  not  every  night  air  will  produce  whiskers. 
It  takes  a  high,  frosty  air,  one  that  stays  out  late,  to 
make  whiskers.  Take,  for  example,  the  night  air  of 
the  Black  Hills  ;  it  is  known  everywhere  among  steel 
rails  as  a  beard  tonic.  The  day's  moisture,  falling  as 
the  sun  drops  beyond  the  hills  is  drawn  into  feathery, 
jewelled  crystals  of  frost  on  the  chilly  steel,  as  a  glass 
of  ice-water  beads  in  summer  shade  ;  and  these  dewy 
stalagmites  rise  in  a  dainty  profusion,  until  when  day 
peeps  into  the  canons  the  track  looks  like  a  pair  of 
long  white  streamers  winding  up  and  down  the  levels. 
But  beware  that  track.  It  is  a  very  dangerous  track, 
and  its  possibilities  lie  where  Samson's  lay  —  in  the 
whiskers. 

So  it  lies  in  early  morning,as  pretty  a  death-trap  as 
any  flower  that  ever  lured  a  fly;  only,  this  pitfall 


The  Wiper's  Story  43 

waits  for  engines  and  trains  and  men  —  and  some 
times  gets  them. 

It  waits  there  on  the  mountain  grades,  in  an 
ambush  really  deadly  for  an  unwary  train,  until  the 
sun,  which  is  particularly  lazy  in  the  fall,  peeping 
over  into  the  cuts,  smiles,  at  length,  on  the  bearded 
steel  as  if  it  were  too  funny,  and  the  whiskers 
vanish  into  thin  air. 

A  smooth-faced  rail  presents  no  especial  dangers  ; 
and  if  trainmen  in  the  Hills  had  their  way,  they  would 
never  turn  a  wheel  until  the  sun  had  done  barbering. 
But  despatchers  not  having  to  do  with  them  take  na 
account  of  whiskers.  They  make  only  the  schedules, 
and  the  whiskers  make  the  trouble.  To  lessen  their 
dangers,  engineers  always  start,  up  hill  or  down,  with 
a  tankful  of  sand,  and  they  sand  the  whiskers.  It  is 
rough  barbering,  but  it  helps  the  driver-tires  grit  a  bit 
into  the  face  of  the  rail,  and  in  that  way  hang  on.  In 
this  emergency  a  tankful  of  sand  is  better  than  all  the 
air  Westinghouse  ever  stored. 

Aloysius  McGrath  was  a  little  sweeper ;  but  he 
was  an  aspiring  one,  for  even  a  sweeper  may  aspire,. 


44  Held  for  Orders 

and  in  point  of  fact  most  of  them  do  aspire.  Aloysius 
worked  in  the  roundhouse  at  the  head  of  the  Wind 
River  pass  on  the  West  End  Mountains.  It  is  an 
amazingly  rough  country  ;  and  as  for  grades,  it  takes 
your  breath  merely  to  look  down  the  levels.  Three 
per  cent,  four  per  cent,  five  per  cent  —  it  is  really 
frightful !  But  Aloysius  was  used  to  heavy  falls ;  he 
had  begun  working  for  the  company  as  a  sweeper 
under  Johnnie  Horigan,  and  no  engineer  would  have 
thought  of  running  a  grade  to  compare  with  John 
nie's  headers. 

Horigan  was  the  first  boss  Aloysius  ever  had. 
Now  Aloysius,  if  caught  just  right,  is  a  very  pretty 
name,but  Johnnie  Horigan  could  make  nothing  what 
ever  of  it,  so  he  called  Aloysius,  Cooney,  as  he  said, 
for  short  —  Cooney  McGrath  —  and,  by  the  way,  if 
you  will  call  that  McGraw,  we  shall  be  started  right. 
As  for  Horigan,  he  may  be  called  anything  ;  at  least 
it  is  certain  that  on  the  West  End  he  has  been  called 
everything. 

Johnnie  was  ordinarily  boss  sweeper.  He  had 
suffered  numerous  promotions  —  several  times  to 


The  Wiper's  Story  45 

wiper,  and  once  to  hostler ;  but  his  tendency  to 
celebrate  these  occasions  usually  cost  him  his  job, 
and  he  reverted  to  sweeping.  If  he  had  not  been 
such  an  inoffensive,  sawed-off  little  old  nubbin  he 
would  n't  have  been  tolerated  on  the  pay  rolls ;  but 
he  had  been  with  the  company  so  long  and  discharged 
so  often  that  foremen  grew  tired  of  trying  to  get  rid 
of  him,  and  in  spite  of  his  very  regular  habits,  he 
was  hanging  on  somewhere  all  the  time. 

When  Johnnie  was  gone,  using  the  word  in  at 
least  two  senses,  AloysiusCooney  McGrath  became, 
ipso  facto,  boss  sweeper.  It  happened  first  one  Sun 
day  morning,  just  after  pay  day,  when  Johnnie  ap 
plied  to  the  foreman  for  permission  to  go  to  church. 
Permission  was  granted,  and  Johnnie  started  for 
church ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  ever  found  it. 
At  all  events,  at  the  end  of  three  weeks  he  turned  up 
again  at  the  roundhouse,  considerably  the  worse  for 
his  attempt  to  locate  the  house  of  prayer  —  which  he 
had  tried  to  find  only  after  he  had  been  kicked  out  of 
every  other  place  in  town. 

Aloysius  had  improved  the  interval  by  sweeping 


46  Held  for  Orders 

the  loundhouseas  it  never  had  been  swept  before;  and 
when  Johnnie  Horigan  returned,  morally  disfigured, 
Aloysius  McGrathwas  already  promoted  to  be  wiper 
over  his  old  superior.  Johnnie  was  in  no  wise  en 
vious.  His  only  move  was  to  turn  the  misfortune  to 
account  for  an  ulterior  purpose,  and  he  congratulated 
the  boy,  affecting  that  he  had  stayed  away  to  let  them 
see  what  stuffthe  young  fellow  was  made  of.  This 
put  him  in  a  position  to  negotiate  a  small  loan  from 
his  protege  —  a  position  of  which  he  never  neglected 
the  possibilities.  It  was  out  of  the  question  to  be  mad 
very  long  at  Johnnie,  though  one  might  be  very  often. 
After  a  time  Aloysius  got  to  firing  :  then  he  wanted 
an  engine.  But  he  fired  many  months,  and  there 
came  no  promotion.  The  trouble  was,  there  were 
no  new  crews  added  to  the  engine  service.  Nobody 
got  killed ;  nobody  quit ;  nobody  died.  One,  two, 
and  three  years  without  a  break,  and  little  Aloysius 
had  become  a  bigger  Aloysius,  and  was  still  firing ; 
he  became  also  discouraged,  for  then  the  force  was 
cut  down  and  he  was  put  back  wiping. 

"  Never  y'  mind,  never  y'  mind,  Cooney,"  old 


The  Wiper's  Story  47 

Johnnie  would  say.  "  It  '11  come  all  right.  You  '11 
get  y'r  ingin*  yet.  Lind  me  a  couple  till  pay-a-day, 
Cooney,  will  you  ?  I  '11  wahrant  y'  y'r  ingin'  yet, 
Cooney."  Which  little  assurance  always  cost 
Aloysius  two  dollars  till  pay  day,  and  no  end  of 
trouble  getting  it  back  ;  for  when  he  attempted  collec 
tion,  Johnnie  took  a  very  dark  view  of  the  lad's 
future,  alluding  vaguely  to  people  who  were  hard 
hearted  and  ungrateful  to  their  best  friends.  And 
though  Aloysius  paid  slight  attention  to  the  old 
sweeper's  vaporings,  he  really  was  in  the  end  the 
means  of  the  boy's  getting  his  engine. 

After  three  years  of  panic  and  hard  times  on  the 
mountain  division,  the  mines  began  to  reopen,  new 
spurs  were  laid  out,  construction  crews  were  put  on, 
and  a  new  activity  was  everywhere  apparent.  But  to 
fill  the  cup  of  Aloysius'  woe,  the  new  crews  were  all 
sent  up  from  McCloud.  That  they  were  older  men 
in  the  order  of  promotion  was  cold  comfort  —  Aloy 
sius  felt  crowded  out.  He  went  very  blue,  and  the 
next  time  Johnnie  applied  fora  loan  Aloysius  rebuffed 
him  unfeelingly  -,  this  in  turn  depressed  John. 


48  Held  for  Orders 

u  Never  mind,  never  mind,  Cooney.  I  '11  not  be 
speakin'  t'  Neighbor  agin  t'  set  y'  up.  If  y'  like 
wipin',  stick  to  ut.  I  '11  not  be  troublin'  Neighbor 
agin."  Johnnie  professed  a  great  pull  with  the  master 
mechanic. 

That  Aloysius  might  feel  still  more  the  sting  of  his 
coldness,  Johnnie  for  some  days  paid  much  court  to 
the  new  firemen  and  engine  runners.  Nothing  about 
the  house  was  too  good  for  them,  and  as  the  crafty 
sweeper  never  overlooked  an  opportunity,  he  was  in 
debt  before  the  end  of  the  week  to  most  of  the 
brotherhood. 

But  the  memorable  morning  for  Aloysius  came 
shortly  thereafter.  It  was  one  of  those  keen  October 
mornings  that  bite  so  in  the  Hills.  The  construction 
train,  Extra  240  West,  had  started  about  five  o'clock 
from  the  head  of  the  pass  with  a  load  of  steel  for  the 
track  layers,  and  stopped  for  a  bite  of  breakfast  at 
Wind  River.  Above  the  roundhouse  there  is  a 
switchback.  When  the  train  pulled  in,  the  crew  got 
off  for  some  hot  coffee.  JohnnieiHorigan  was  around 
playing  good  fellow,  and  he  climbed  into  the  cab  to 


The  Wiper's  Story  49 

run  the  train  through  the  switchback  while  the  crews 
were  at  the  eating  house.  It  was  irregular  to  leave 
the  engine,  but  they  did,  and  as  for  Johnnie  Horigan, 
he  was  regularly  irregular.  There  were  sixteen  cars 
of  steel  in  the  string,  besides  a  cabooseful  of  laborers. 
The  backing  up  the  leg  of  the  nipper  was  easy.  After 
the  switch  was  newly  set,  Johnnie  pulled  down  the 
lower  leg  ;  and  that,  considering  the  whiskers,  was 
too  easy. 

When  he  pulled  past  the  eating  house  on  the  down 
grade,  he  was  going  so  lively  with  his  flats  that  he 
was  away  before  the  crew  could  get  out  of  the  lunch 
room.  In  just  one  minute  everybody  in  Wind 
River  was  in  trouble :  the  crew,  because  their 
train  was  disappearing  down  the  canon  ;  the  eating 
house  man,  because  nobody  paid  him  for  his  coffee ; 
and  Johnnie  Horigan,  because  he  found  it  impossi 
ble  to  stop.  He  had  dumped  the  sand,  he  had 
applied  the  air,  he  had  reversed  the  engine  —  by  all 
the  rules  laid  down  in  the  instruction  car  she  ought 
to  stop.  But  she  did  n't  stop,  and  — this  was  the 
embarrassing  feature — she  was  headed  down  a  hill 
4 


50  Held  for  Orders 

twenty  miles  long,  with  curves  to  weary  a  boa- 
constrictor.  John  hung  his  head  wildly  over  the 
drivers,  looked  back  at  the  yelling  crew,  contem 
plated  the  load  that  was  pushing  him  down  the 
grade  and  his  head  began  to  swim.  There  ap 
peared  but  one  thing  more  to  do :  that  was  to  make  a 
noise  ;  and  as  he  neared  the  roundhouse  he  whistled 
like  the  wind.  Aloysius  O'Cooney  McGrath,  at 
the  alarm,  darted  out  of  the  house  like  a  fox.  As 
he  reached  the  door  he  saw  the  construction  train 
coming,  and  Johnnie  Horigan  in  the  gangway  look 
ing  for  a  soft  place  to  light. 

The  wiper  chartered  the  situation  in  a  mental 
second.  The  train  was  running  away,  and  Hori 
gan  was  leaving  it  to  its  fate.  From  any  point  of 
view  it  was  a  tough  proposition,  but  tough  proposi 
tions  come  rarely  to  ambitious  railroad  men,  and 
Aloysius  was  starving  for  any  sort  of  a  proposition 
that  would  help  him  out  of  the  waste.  The  laborers 
in  the  caboose,  already  bewildered,  were  craning 
anxiously  from  the  windows.  Horigan,  opposite 
the  roundhouse,  jumped  in  a  sprawl;  the  engine 


The  Wiper's  Story  5 1 

was  shot  past  Aloysius ;  boarding  was  out  of  the 
question. 

But  on  the  siding  stood  a  couple  of  flats,  empty  ; 
and  with  his  hair  straight  on  centres,  the  little 
wiper  ran  for  them  and  mounted  the  nearest.  The 
steel  train  was  jumping.  Aloysius,  bunching  his 
muscle,  ran  the  length  of  the  two  flats  for  a  head, 
and,  from  the  far  corner,  threw  himself  across  the 
gap,  like  a  bat,  on  a  load  of  the  runaway  steel. 
Scrambling  to  his  feet,  he  motioned  and  yelled  to 
the  hoboes,  who  were  pouring  frantic  out  on  the 
hind  flat  of  the  string,  to  set  brakes ;  then  he  made 
ahead  for  the  engine. 

It  was  a  race  with  the  odds  all  wrong,  for  with 
every  yard  Aloysius  gained,  the  train  gained  a 
dozen.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  tender,  breath 
less,  and  slid  down  the  coal  into  the  deserted  cab, 
the  train  was  heading  into  Little  Horn  gap,  and  ev 
ery  Italian  aboard,  yelling  for  life.  Aloysius  jumped 
into  the  levers,  poked  his  head  through  the  window, 
and  looked  at  the  drivers.  They  were  in  the  back 
motion,  and  in  front  of  them  the  sand  was  stream 


52  Held  for  Orders 

ing  wide  open.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
shut  half  it  off  —  the  fight  could  not  be  won  by 
wasting  ammunition.  Over  and  over  again  he 
jerked  at  the  air.  It  was  refusing  its  work.  Where 
so  many  a  hunted  runner  has  turned  for  salvation 
there  was  none  for  Aloysius.  He  opened  and 
closed,  threw  on  and  threw  off;  it  was  all  one, 
and  all  useless.  The  situation  was  as  simple  as  it 
was  frightful.  Even  if  they  did  n't  leave  the  track, 
they  were  certain  to  smash  into  Number  Sixteen, 
the  up-passenger,  which  must  meet  them  some 
where  on  the  hill. 

Aloysius's  fingers  closed  slowly  on  the  sand  lever. 
There  was  nothing  on  earth  for  it  but  sand,  merely 
sand;  and  even  the  wiper's  was  oozing  with  the 
stream  that  poured  from  the  tank  on  the  whiskered 
rails.  He  shut  off  a  bit  more,  thinking  of  the  ter 
rific  curves  below,  and  mentally  calculated — or  tried 
to  —  how  long  his  steam  would  last  to  reverse  the 
drivers — how  he  could  shovel  coal  and  sand  the 
curves  at  the  same  time  —  and  how  much  slewing 
the  Italians  at  the  tail  of  the  kite  could  stand  with 
out  landing  on  the  rocks. 


The  Wiper's  Story  53 

The  pace  was  giddy  and  worse.  When  his  brain 
was  whirling  fastest,  a  man  put  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  Aloysius  started  as  if  Davy  Jones  had 
tapped  him,  and  between  bounces  looked,  scared, 
around.  He  looked  into  a  face  he  didn't  know 
from  Adam's,  but  there  was  sand  in  the  eyes  that 
met  his. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

Aloysius  saw  the  man's  lips  move,  and,  without 
taking  his  hands  from  the  levers,  bent  his  head  to 
catch  the  words. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  shouted  the  man  at  his  elbow. 

"  Give  me  steam  —  steam,"  cried  the  wiper,  look 
ing  straight  ahead. 

It  was  the  foreman  of  the  steel  gang  from  the 
caboose.  Aloysius,  through  the  backs  of  his  eyes, 
saw  him  grab  the  shovel  and  make  a  pass  at  the 
tender.  Doing  so,  he  nearly  took  a  header  through 
the  gangway,  but  he  hung  to  the  shovel  and  braced 
himself  better. 

With  the  next  attempt  he  got  a  shovelful  into  the 
cab,  but  in  the  delivery  passed  it  well  up  Aloysius's 


54  Held  for  Orders 

neck.  There  were  neither  words  nor  grins,  but 
just  another  shovelful  of  coal  a  minute  after;  ana 
the  track-layer,  in  spite  of  the  dizzy  lurching,  shot 
it  where  it  belonged  —  into  the  furnace.  Feeling 
that  if  one  shovelful  could  be  landed,  more  could, 
Alyosius's  own  steam  rose.  As  they  headed  madly 
around  the  Cinnamon  bend  the  dial  began  to  climb 
in  spite  of  the  obstacles ;  and  the  wiper,  consider 
ing  there  were  two,  and  the  steam  and  the  sand  to 
fight  the  thing  out,  opened  his  valve  and  dusted  the 
whiskers  on  the  curve  with  something  more  than  a 
gleam  of  hope. 

If  there  was  confusion  on  the  runaway  train,  there 
was  terror  and  more  below  it.  As  the  spectre  flitted 
past  Pringle  station,  five  miles  down  the  valley,  the 
agent  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sallow  face  of  the 
wiper  at  the  cab  window,  and  saw  the  drivers  whirl 
ing  backward.  He  rushed  to  his  key  and  called  the 
Medicine  Bend  despatcher.  With  a  tattoo  like  a 
drum-roll  the  despatcher  in  turn  called  Soda  Springs, 
ten  miles  below  Pringle,  where  Number  Sixteen,  the 
up-passenger,  was  then  due.  He  rattled  on  with 


The  Wiper's  Story  55 

his  heart  in  his  fingers,  and  answer  came  on  the 
instant.     Then  an  order  flashed  into  Soda  Springs: 

To  No.  16. 

Take  Soda  Springs  siding  quick.  Extra  240 
West  has  lost  control  of  the  train.  Di. 

There  never  was  such  a  bubbling  at  Soda  Springs 
as  that  bubbling.  The  operator  tore  up  the  platform 
like  a  hawk  in  a  chicken  yard.  Men  never  scat 
tered  so  quick  as  when  Number  Sixteen  began 
screaming  and  wheezing  and  backing  for  the  clear. 
Above  the  town,  Aloysius,  eyes  white  to  the  sockets, 
shooting  the  curves  like  a  meteor,  watched  his  less 
ening  stream  of  sand  pour  into  the  frost  on  the  track. 
As  they  whipped  over  bridges  and  fills  the  caboose 
reeled  like  a  dying  top — fear  froze  every  soul  on 
board.  To  leave  the  track  now  meant  a  scatter 
that  would  break  West  End  records. 

When  Soda  Springs  sighted  Extra  240  West,  pitch 
ing  down  the  mountain,  the  steel  dancing  behind  and 
Aloysius  jumping  before,  there  was  a  painful  sensa 
tion  —  the  sensation  of  good  men  who  see  a  disaster 


56  Held  for  Orders 

they  are  powerless  to  avert.  "*  Nor  did  Soda  Springs 
know  how  desperate  the  wiper's  extremity  had  be 
come.  Not  even  the  struggling  steel  foreman  knew 
that  with  Soda  Springs  passing  like  the  films  of  a 
cinematograph,  and  two  more  miles  of  down-grade 
ahead, the  last  cupful  of  sand  was  trickling  from  the 
wiper's  tank.  Aloysius,  at  that  moment,  would  n't 
have  given  the  odd  change  on  a  pay  check  for  all  the 
chances  Extra  240  and  he  himself  had  left.  He  stuck 
to  his  levers  merely  because  there  was  no  particular 
reason  for  letting  go.  It  was  only  a  question  of  how 
a  man  wanted  to  take  the  rocks.  Yet,  with  all  his 
figuring,  Aloysius  had  lost  sight  of  his  only  salvation 
—  maybe  because  it  was  quite  out  of  his  power  to 
effect  it  himself.  But  in  making  the  run  up  to  Soda 
Springs  Number  Sixteen  had  already  sanded  the  rails 
below. 

He  could  feel  the  help  the  minute  the  tires  ground 
into  the  grit.  They  began  to  smoke,  and  Aloysius 
perceived  the  grade  was  easing  somewhat.  Even 
the  dazed  foreman,  looking  back,  saw  an  improve 
ment  in  the  lurch  of  the  caboose.  There  was  one 


The  Wiper's  Story  57 

more  hair-raiser  ahead — the  appalling  curve  at  the 
forks  of  the  Goose.  But,  instead  of  being  hurled 
over  the  elevation,  they  found  themselves  around  it 
and  on  the  bridge  with  only  a  vicious  slew.  Aloy- 
sius's  hair  began  to  lie  down,  and  his  heart  to 
rise  up.  He  had  her  checked  —  even  the  hoboes 
knew  it  —  and  a  mile  further,  with  the  dangers 
past,  they  took  new  ones  by  dropping  off  the  hind 
end. 

At  *he  second  bend  below  the  Goose,  Alovsius 
made  a  stop,  and  began  again  to  breathe.  A  box  was 
blazing  on  the  tender  truck,  and,  with  his  handv 
fireman,  he  got  down  at  once  to  doctor  it.  The 
whole  thing  shifted  so  mortally  quick  from  danger 
to  safety  that  the  two  never  stopped  to  inventory 
their  fears  ;  they  seemed  to  have  vanished  with  the 
frost  that  lured  them  to  destruction.  They  jumped 
together  into  the  cab ;  and  whistling  at  the  labor 
ers  strung  back  along  the  right  of  way  Extra  240 
West  began  backing  pluckily  up  hill  to  Soda  Springs. 
The  first  man  who  approached  the  cab  as  they  slowed 
down  for  the  platform  —  m  fact,  people  rather  stood 


58  Held  for  Orders 

back  for  him  —  was  Bucks,  Superintendent  of  the 
Division  ;  his  car  had  come  in  attached  to  Number 
Sixteen. 

"  How  did  your  train  get  away  from  you  ?  "  he 
asked  of  Aloysius;  there  was  neither  speculation 
nor  sympathy  in  his  manner  and  his  words  were 
bitten  with  frost. 

"  It  did  n't  get  away  from  me,"  retorted  Aloysius, 
who  had  never  before  in  his  life  seen  the  man,  and 
was  not  aware  that  he  owed  him  any  money.  But 
the  operator  at  the  Springs,  who  knew  Aloysius  and 
the  superintendent  both,  was  standing  behind  the  lat 
ter  doing  a  pantomime  that  would  shame  a  medicine 
man. 

"  Quick  talking  will  do  more  for  you  than  smart 
talking,"  replied  the  superintendent,  crisply.  "  You  '11 
never  get  a  better  chance  while  you  're  working  for 
this  company  to  explain  yourself." 

Aloysius  himself  began  to  think  so,  for  the  nods 
and  winks  of  the  operatorwere  bewildering.  He  tried 
to  speak  up,  but  the  foreman  of  the  steel  gang  put  in  : 
"See  here,  sport,"  he  snapped,  irreverently,  at  the 


The  Wiper's  Story  59 

angry  official.  "Why  don't  you  cool  your  hat 
before  you  jump  a  fellow  like  that  ?  " 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours  how  I  jump  a  fel 
low?"  returned  the  superintendent,  sharply,  "who 
are  you  ? " 

"  I  'm  only  foreman  of  this  steel  gang,  my  friend  ; 
and  I  don't  take  any  back  talk  from  anybody." 

"  In  that  case,"  responded  Bucks,  with  velvet  sar 
casm,  "  perhaps  you  will  explain  things.  I  'm  only 
superintendent  of  this  division  ;  but  it's  customary 
to  inquire  into  matters  of  this  kind." 

Aloysius  at  the  words  nearly  sank  to  the  platform  ; 
but  the  master  of  the  hoboes,  who  had  all  the  facts, 
went  at  the  big  man  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the 
gang,  and  did  not  falter  till  he  had  covered  the 
perspiring  wiper  with  glory. 

"  What 's  the  reason  the  air  would  n't  work  ?  '* 
asked  the  superintendent,  turning,  without  com 
ment,  when  the  track-layer  had  finished,  to  Aloysius. 

u  I  have  n't  had  time  to  find  out,  sir." 

"  Find  out  and  report  to  me.  What 's  your 
name?" 


60  Held  for  Orders 

"  McGrath." 

"  McGraw,  eh  ?  Well,  McGraw,  look  close  into 
the  air.  There  may  be  something  in  it  for  you. 
You  did  the  firing?  "  he  added,  turning  short  again 
on  the  unabashed  steel  foreman. 

"  What  there  was  done." 

u  I  '11  do  a  little  now  myself.  I  '11  fire  you  right 
here  and  now  for  impertinence." 

"  I  suppose  you  're  the  boss,"  responded  the  man 
of  ties,  imperturbably.  "  When  I  made  the  crack, 
I  'd  made  it  harder  if  I  had  known  who  you  were." 

"  You  know  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Bucks,  in  his  mildest  tones. 
"  If  you  will  report  to  me  at  Medicine  Bend  this 
afternoon,  I  '11  see  whether  we  can't  find  some 
thing  better  for  your  manners  than  cursing  hoboes. 
You  can  ride  down  in  my  car,  sport.  What  do 
you  say  ?  That  will  save  you  transportation." 

It  brought  a  yell  from  the  railroad  men  crowding 
around,  for  that  was  Bucks's  way  of  doing  things ; 
and  the  men  liked  Bucks  and  his  way.  The  ex- 


The  Wiper's  Story  61 

captain  of  the  dagoes  tried  to  look  cool,  but  in 
point  of  fact  went  very  sheepish  at  his  honors. 

Followed  by  a  mob,  eager  to  see  the  finish,  Super 
intendent  Bucks  made  his  way  up  the  track  along 
the  construction  train  to  where  Aloysius  and  the 
engineer  of  Number  Sixteen  were  examining  the 
air.  They  found  it  frozen  between  the  first  and 
the  second  car.  Bucks  heard  it  all  —  heard  the 
whole  story.  Then  he  turned  to  his  clerk. 

"  Discharge  both  crews  of  Extra  240.  Fire 
Johnnie  Horigan." 

«  Yes,  sir." 

u  McGrath,  run  your  train  back  to  Wind  River 
behind  us.  We  '11  scare  up  a  conductor  here  some 
where  ;  if  we  can't,  I  '11  be  your  conductor.  Make 
your  report  to  Medicine  Bend,"  Bucks  added, 
speaking  to  the  operator ;  and  without  further 
words  walked  back  to  his  car. 

As  he  turned  away,  the  engineer  of  Number  Six 
teen  slapped  Aloysius  on  the  back : 

"  Kid,  why  the  blazes  did  n't  you  thank  him  ?  " 

"Who?" 


62  Held  for  Orders 

«  Bucks." 

«  What  for  ?  " 

"  What  for  ?  Jiminey  Christmas  !  What  for  ? 
Did  n't  he  just  make  you  an  engineer  ?  Did  n't 
he  just  say,  c  Run  your  train  back  behind  us  to 
Wind  River'?" 

"  My  train  ?  " 

"  Sure,  your  train.  Do  you  think  Bucks  ever  says 
a  thing  like  that  without  meaning  it  ?  You  bet  not." 

Bucks's  clerk,  too,  was  a  little  uncertain  about 
the  promotion.  "  I  suppose  he 's  competent  to  run 
the  train  back,  is  n't  he  ?  "  he  asked  of  Bucks, 
suggestively. 

Bucks  was  scrawling  a  message. 

"  A  man  that  could  hold  a  train  from  Wind  River 
here  on  whiskers,  with  nothing  but  a  tankful  of 
sand  and  a  hobo  fireman,  would  n't  be  likely  to  fall 
off  the  right  of  way  running  back,"  he  returned 
dryly.  "  He  's  been  firing  for  years,  has  n't  he  ? 
We  have  n't  got  half  enough  men  like  McGraw. 
Tell  Neighbor  to  give  him  an  engine." 


Hailey 


Held    for    Orders 

K 

The    Roadmaster'  s    Story 

Jt 

THE   SPIDER   WATER 


The    Roadmaster's    Story 


THE  SPIDER  WATER 

NOT   officially;    I   don't  pretend  to   say 
that.     You  might  travel  the  West  End 
from   fresh  water  to  salt- — and  we  dip 
into  both — without  ever  locating  the  Spider  Water 
by  map  or  by  name. 

But  if  you  should  happen  anywhere  on  the  West 
End  to  sit  among  a  gang  of  bridge  carpenters ;  or 
get  to  confidence  with  a  bridge  foreman ;  or  find 
the  springy  side  of  a  roadmaster's  heart ;  then,  you 
might  hear  all  you  wanted  about  the  Spider  Water 
—  maybe  more  ;  anyway,  full  plenty,  as  Hailey 
used  to  say. 

The  Sioux  named  it;  and  whatever  may  be  thought 
of  their  interpretation  of  Scriptural  views  on  land- 
grabbing,  no  man  with  sense  ever  attempted  to  im- 


66  Held  for  Orders 

prove  on  their  names  for  things,  whether  birds,  or 
braves,  or  winds,  or  waters  —  they  know. 

Our  General  Managers  had  n't  always  sense  — 
this  may  seem  odd,  but  on  the  system  it  would  excite 
no  comment  —  and  one  of  them  countenanced  a 
shameful  change  in  the  name  of  the  Spider  Water. 
Some  polytechnical  idiot  at  a  safe  distance  dubbed 
it  The  Big  Sandy  ;  and  the  Big  Sandy  it  is  to  this 
day  on  map  and  in  folder  —  but  not  in  the  lingo 
of  trackmen  nor  the  heart  of  the  Sioux.  Don't 
say  Big  Sandy  to  trackmen  and  hand  out  a  cigar. 
It  will  not  go.  Say  Spider  Water  without  any 
cigar  and  you  will  get  a  word  and  a  stool,  and  if 
you  ask  it,  fine  cut. 

The  Spider  Water  —  although  ours  is  the  pioneer 
line  —  was  there  when  we  first  bridged  it.  It  is 
probably  as  old  as  sundown,  and  nothing  like  as 
pretty.  The  banks  —  it  has  none  to  speak  of. 
Its  stones — they  are  whiskered.  Its  bed  —  full 
of  sand-burs.  Everything  about  the  villain  stream 
has  a  dilapidate,  broken-down  air :  the  very  mud 
of  the  Spider  Water  is  rusty. 


The  Headmaster's  Story          67 

So  our  people  bridged  it ;  and  the  trouble  began. 
A  number  of  matters  bothered  our  pioneer  man 
agements  —  Indians,  outlaws,  cabinet  officers,  con 
gressional  committees,  and  Wall  Street  magnates 
—  but  at  one  time  or  another  our  folks  managed 
all  of  them.  The  only  thing  they  could  n't  at  any 
time  satisfactorily  manage  was  the  Spider  Water. 
Bridge  after  bridge  they  threw  across  it  —  and  into 
it.  Year  after  year  the  Spider  Water  toyed  with 
our  civil  engineers  and  our  material  department. 
One  man  at  Omaha  given  to  asthma  and  statistics 
estimated,  between  spells,  that  the  Spider  Water 
had  cost  us  more  money  than  all  the  water  courses 
together  from  the  Missouri  to  the  Sierras. 

Then  came  to  the  West  End  a  masterful  man,  a 
Scotchman,  pawky  and  hard.  Brodie  was  his 
name,  an  Edinburgh  man  with  no  end  of  degrees 
and  master  of  every  one.  Brodie  came  to  be  su 
perintendent  of  bridges  on  the  Western  Division, 
and  to  boss  every  water  course  on  the  plains  and 
in  the  mountains.  But  the  Spider  Water  took  a 
fall  even  out  of  Brodie.  It  swept  out  a  Howe 


68  Held  for  Orders 

truss  bridge  for  Brodie  before  he  got  his  bag  un 
packed,  and  thereafter  Brodie,  who  was  reputed  not 
to  care  a  stringer  for  anybody,  did  not  conceal  a 
distinct  respect  for  the  Spider. 

Brodie  went  at  it  right.  He  tried,  not  to  make 
friends  with  the  Spider,  for  nobody  could  do  that, 
but  to  get  acquainted  with  it.  For  this  he  went 
to  its  oldest  neighbors,  the  Sioux.  Brodie  spent 
weeks  and  weeks  up  the  Spider  Water  hunting, 
summers ;  and  with  the  Sioux  he  talked  Spider 
Water  and  drank  fire-water.  That  was  Brodie's 
shame  —  the  fire-water. 

But  he  was  pawky,  and  he  chinned  unceasingly 
the  braves  and  the  medicine  men  about  the  uncom 
monly  queer  water  that  took  the  bridges  so  fast. 
The  river  that  month  in  and  month  out  could  n't 
squeeze  up  water  enough  to  baptize  a  pollywog 
and  then,  of  a  sudden,  and  for  a  few  days,  would 
rage  like  the  Missouri,  restore  to  the  desert  its  own 
and  living  image,  and  leave  our  bewildered  rails 
hung  up  either  side  in  the  wind. 

Brodie  talked  cloudbursts  up  country ;  for  the 


The  Headmaster's  Story          69 

floods  came,  times,  under  clear  skies  —  and  the 
Sioux  sulked  in  silence.  He  suggested  an  unsus 
pected  inlet  from  some  mountain  stream  which 
maybe,  times,  sent  its  storm  water  over  a  low 
divide  into  the  Spider — and  the  red  men  shrugged 
their  faces.  As  a  last  resort  and  in  desperation  he 
hinted  at  the  devil ;  and  the  sceptics  took  a  quick 
brace  with  as  much  as  to  say,  now  you  are  talking ; 
and  muttered  very  bad  Medicine. 

Then  they  gave  him  the  Indian  stuff  about  the 
Spider  Water;  took  him  away  up  where  once  a 
party  of  Pawnees  had  camped  in  the  dust  of  the 
river  bed  to  surprise  the  Sioux ;  and  told  Brodie 
how  the  Spider,  more  sudden  than  buck,  fleeter 
than  pony,  had  come  down  in  the  night  and  sur 
prised  the  Pawnees  —  and  so  well  that  the  next 
morning  there  was  n't  enough  material  left  for  a 
scalp  dance. 

They  took  Brodie  out  into  the  ratty  bed  himself 
and  when  he  said,  heap  dry,  and  said,  no  water, 
they  laughed,  Indianwise,  and  pointed  to  the  sand. 
Scooping  little  wells  with  their  hands  they  showed 


jo  Held  for  Orders 

him  the  rising  and  the  filling;  the  instant  water 
where  before  was  no  water.  And  dropping  into 
the  wells  feathers  of  the  grouse,  they  showed  Bro- 
die  how  the  current  carried  them  always  across  the 
well  —  every  time,  and  always,  Brodie  noticed  — 
southeast.  Then  Brodie  made  Hailey  dig  many 
holes,  and  the  Spider  welled  into  them,  and  he 
threw  in  bits  of  notebooks  and  tobacco  wrappers, 
but  always  they  travelled  southeast  —  always  the 
same;  and  a  bigger  fool  than  Brodie  could  see 
that  the  water  was  all  there,  only  underground. 
But  when  did  it  rise?  asked  Brodie.  When  the 
Chinook  spoke,  said  the  Sioux.  And  why  ?  per 
sisted  Brodie.  Because  the  Spider  woke,  said  the 
Sioux.  And  Brodie  went  out  of  the  camp  of  the 
Sioux  wondering. 

And  he  planned  a  new  bridge  which  should  stand 
*  he  Chinook  and  the  Spider  and  the  de'il  himself, 
said  Brodie,  Medicine  or  no  Medicine.  And  full 
seven  year  it  lasted ;  then  the  fire-water  spoke  for 
the  wicked  Scotchman  —  and  he  himself  went  out 
into  the  night. 


The  Roadmaster's  Story  71 

And  after  he  died,  miserable  wreck  of  a  man  — 
and  of  a  very  great  man — the  Spider  woke  and 
took  his  pawky  bridge  and  tied  up  the  main  line 
for  two  weeks  and  set  us  crazy  —  for  we  were 
already  losing  our  grip  on  the  California  fast  freight 
business.  But  at  that  time  Hailey  was  superin 
tendent  of  bridges  on  the  West  End. 

I 

HIS  father  was  a  section  foreman.  When 
Hailey  was  a  kid  —  a  mere  kid  —  he 
got  into  Brodie's  office  doing  errands ; 
but  whenever  he  saw  a  draughtsman  at  work  he  was 
no  good  for  errands.  At  such  times  he  went  all 
into  a  mental  tangle  that  could  neither  be  thrashed 
nor  kicked  out  of  him,  though  both  were  conscien 
tiously  tried  by  old  man  Hailey  and  Superintendent 
Brodie ;  and  Brodie,  since  he  could  do  nothing  else 
with  him,  finally  kicked  him  into  learning  to  read  — 
and  to  cipher,  Brodie  called  it.  Then,  by  and  by, 
Hailey  got  an  old  table  and  part  of  a  cake  of  India  ink 


72  Held  for  Orders 

himself,  and  himself  became  a  draughtsman,  and  soon, 
with  some  cursing  from  Brodie  and  a  u  Luk  a'  that 
now  !  "  from  his  paralyzed  daddy,  became  chief 
draughtsman  in  Brodie's  office.  Hailey  was  no  col 
lege  man  —  Hailey  was  a  Brodie  man.  Single  mind 
on  single  mind  —  concentration  absolute.  Mathe 
matics,  drawing,  bridges,  brains  —  that  was  Hailey. 
But  no  classics  except  Brodie,  who  himself  was  a 
classic.  All  that  Brodie  knew,  Hailey  had  from  him ; 
and  where  Brodie  was  weak,  Hailey  was  strong  — 
master  of  himself.  When  Brodie  shamed  the  image 
he  was  made  in,  Hailey  hid  the  shame  best  he  could, 
—  though  never  touched  or  made  it  his  own — and 
Brodie,  who  hated  even  himself,  showed  still  a  light 
in  the  wreck  by  molding  Hailey  to  his  work.  For, 
one  day,  said  Brodie  in  his  heart,  this  boy  shall  be 
master  of  these  bridges.  When  I  am  rot,  he  will  be 
here  what  I  ought  to  have  been  —  this  Irish  boy  — 
and  they  will  say  he  was  Brodie's  man.  And  better 
than  any  of  these  dough-heads  they  send  me  out, 
better  than  any  of  their  Eastern  graduates  he  shall 
be,  if  he  was  made  engineer  by  a  drunkard.  And 


The  Headmaster's  Story          73 

H alley  was  better,  far,  far  better  than  the  graduates, 
better  than  Brodie — and  to  Hailey  came  the  time 
to  wrestle  the  Spider. 

Stronger  than  any  man  before  or  since  he  was  for 
that  work.  All  Brodie  knew,  all  the  Indians  knew, 
all  that  a  life's  experience,  eating,  living,  watching, 
sleeping  with  the  big  river  had  taught  him,  that 
Hailey  knew.  And  when  Brodie's  bridge  went  out, 
Hailey  was  ready  with  his  new  bridge  for  the  Spider 
Water  which  should  be  better  than  Brodie's,  just  as 
he  was  better  than  Brodie.  It  was  to  be  such  a  bridge 
as  Brodie's  bridge  with  the  fire-water  left  out.  And 
the  plans  fora  Howe  truss,  two  pier,  two  abutment, 
three  span,  pneumatic  caisson  bridge  to  span  the  Big 
Sandy  River  were  submitted  to  headquarters. 

But  the  cost !  The  directors  jumped  their  table 
when  they  saw  the  figures.  We  were  being  milked 
at  that  time — to  put  it  bluntly,  being  sucked,  worse 
than  lemons  —  by  a  Wall  Street  clique  that  robbed 
our  good  road,  shaved  our  salaries,  impoverished  our 
equipment,  and  cut  our  maintenance  to  the  quick. 
They  talked  economy  and  studied  piracy.  In  the 


74  Held  for  Orders 

matter  of  appropriations,  for  themselves  they  were 
free-booters  ;  for  us,  they  were  thrifty  as  men  of 
Hamelin  town.  When  Hailey  demanded  a  thousand 
guilders  for  his  Spider  Water  bridge,  they  laughed  and 
said,  "  Come,  take  fifty."  He  could  n't  do  anything 
else ;  and  he  built  a  fifty  guilder  bridge  to  bar  the 
Spider's  crawl.  It  lasted  really  better  than  the  aver 
age  bridge  and  since  Hailey  never  could  get  a  thou 
sand  guilders  at  once,  he  kept  drawing  fifty  at  a  time 
and  throwing  them  annually  at  the  Spider. 

But  the  dream  of  his  life — this  we  all  knew,  and 
the  Sioux  would  have  said  the  Spider  knew  —  was 
to  build  a  final  bridge  over  the  Spider  Water :  a  bridge 
to  throttle  it  for  all  time. 

It  was  the  one  subject  on  which  you  could  get  a  rise 
out  of  Hailey  any  time,  day  or  night,  — the  two  pier, 
two  abutment,  three  span,  pneumatic  caisson  Spider 
bridge.  He  would  talk  Spider  bridge  to  a  China 
man.  His  bridge  foreman  Ed  Peeto,  a  staving  big, 
one-eyed  French  Canadian,  actually  had  but  two 
ideas  in  life  :  one  was  Hailey  ;  the  other  the  Spider 
bridge.  When  the  management  changed  again  — 


The  Roadmaster's  Story          75 

when  the  pirates  were  sent  out  on  the  plank  so 
many  good  men  had  walked  at  their  command  — 
and  a  great  and  public-spirited  man  took  control  of 
the  system,  Ed  Peeto  kicked  his  little  water  spaniel 
in  a  frenzy  of  delight.  "  Now,  Sport,  old  boy,"  he 
exclaimed  riotously,  "  we  '11  get  the  bridge !  " 

So  there  were  many  long  conferences  at  division 
headquarters  between  Bucks,  superintendent,  and 
Callahan,  assistant,  and  Hailey,  superintendent  of 
bridges,  and  after,  Hailey  went  once  more  to  general 
headquarters  lugging  all  his  estimates  revised  and  all 
his  plans  refigured.  All  his  expense  estimates  outside 
the  Spider  bridge  and  one  other  point  were  slight, 
because  Hailey  could  skin  along  with  less  money 
than  anybody  ever  in  charge  of  the  bridge  work. 
He  did  it  by  keeping  everything  up;  not  a  sleeper, 
not  a  spike — nothing  got  away  from  him. 

The  new  president,  as  befitted  a  very  big  man,  was 
no  end  of  a  swell,  and  received  Hailey  with  a  con 
siderate  dignity  unknown  on  our  End.  He  listened 
carefully  to  the  superintendent's  statement  of  the 
necessities  at  the  Big  Sandy  River.  The  amount 


76  Held  for  Orders 

looked  large ;  but  the  argument,  supported  by  a  mass 
of  statistics,  was  convincing.  Three  bridges  in  ten 
years,  and  the  California  fast  freight  business  lost 
twice.  Hailey's  budget  called,  too,  for  a  new  bridge 
at  the  Peace  River  —  and  a  good  one.  Give  him 
these,  he  said  in  effect,  and  he  would  guarantee  the 
worst  stretch  on  the  system  fora  lifetime  against  tie- 
up  disasters.  Hailey  stayed  over  to  await  the  deci 
sion  ;  but  he  was  always  in  a  hurry,  and  he  haunted 
the  general  offices  until  the  president  told  him  he 
could  have  the  money.  To  Hailey  this  meant,  par 
ticularly,  the  bridge  of  his  dreams.  The  wire  flashed 
the  word  to  the  West  End  j  everybody  at  the  Wickiup 
was  glad ;  but  Ed  Peeto  burned  red  fire  and  his  little 
dog  Sport  ate  rattlesnakes. 

The  old  shack  of  a  depot  building  that  served  as 
division  headquarters  at  Medicine  Bend  we  called 
the  Wickiup.  Everybody  in  it  was  crowded  for 
room,  and  Hailey,  whose  share  was  what  was  left, 
had  hard  work  to  keep  out  of  the  wastebasket.  But 
right  away  now  it  was  different.  Two  extra  offices 
were  assigned  to  Hailey,  and  he  took  his  place  with 


The  Headmaster's  Story          77 

those  who  sported  windows  and  cuspidors  —  in  a 
word,  had  departments  in  the  service.  Old  Denis 
Hailey  went  very  near  crazy.  He  resigned  as  section 
boss  and  took  a  place  at  smaller  wages  in  the  bridge 
carpenter's  gang  so  he  could  work  on  the  boy's 
bridge,  and  Ed  Peeto,  savage  with  responsibility, 
strutted  around  the  Wickiup  like  a  cyclops. 

For  a  wonder  the  bridge  material  came  in  fast  — 
the  Spider  stuff  first  —  and  early  in  the  summer 
Hailey,  very  quiet,  and  Peeto,  very  profane,  with  all 
and  several  their  traps  and  slaves  and  belongings 
moved  into  construction  headquarters  at  the  Spider, 
and  the  first  airlock  ever  sunk  west  of  the  Missouri 
closed  over  the  heads  of  tall  Hailey  and  big  Ed 
Peeto.  Like  a  swarm  of  ants  the  bridge-workers 
cast  the  refuse  up  out  of  the  Spider  bed.  The 
blow-pipes  never  slept :  night  and  day  the  sand 
streamed  from  below,  and  Hailey's  caissons,  like 
armed  cruisers,  sunk  foot  by  foot  towards  the 
rock;  by  the  middle  of  September  the  masonry 
was  crowding  kigh-water  mark,  and  the  following 
Saturday  Hailey  and  Peeto  ran  back  to  Medicine 


78  Held  for  Orders 

Bend  to  rest  up  a  bit  and  get  acquainted  with  their 
families.  Peeto  was  so  deaf  he  could  n't  hear 
himself  swear,  and  Hailey  looked  ragged  and  thin, 
like  the  old  depot,  but  immensely  happy. 

Sunday  morning  counted  a  little  even  then  in  the 
mountains.  It  was  at  least  a  day  to  get  your  feet 
on  the  tables  up  in  Bucks's  office  and  smoke  Calla- 
han's  Cavendish  —  which  was  enough  to  make  a 
man  bless  Callahan  if  he  did  forget  his  Maker. 
Sunday  mornings  Bucks  would  get  out  the  dainty, 
pearl-handled  Wostenholm  that  Lillienfeld,  the  big 
San  Francisco  spirit-shipper,  left  annually  for  him 
at  the  Bend,  and  open  the  R.  R.  B.  mail  and  read 
the  news  aloud  for  the  benefit  of  Callahan  and 
Hailey  and  such  hangers-on  as  Peeto  and  an  occa 
sional  stray  despatcher. 

"  Hello,"  exclaimed  Bucks,  chucking  a  nine-inch 
official  manila  under  the  table,  u  here  's  a  general 
order  —  Number  Fourteen " 

The  boys  drew  their  briers  like  one.  Bucks  read 
out  a  lot  of  stuff  that  did  n't  touch  our  End,  and 
then  he  reached  this  paragraph  : 


The  Headmaster's  Story          79 

u '  The  Mountain  and  the  Inter-mountain  divi 
sions  are  hereby  consolidated  under  the  name  of  the 
Mountain  Division  with  J.  F.  Bucks  as  Superin 
tendent,  headquarters  at  Medicine  Bend.  C.  T. 
Callahan  is  appointed  Assistant  Superintendent  of 
the  new  division.' ' 

"  Good  boy  !  "  roared  Ed  Peeto,  straining  his  ears. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  Hailey,  opening  his  eyes, 
"  here  's  promotions  right  and  left." 

" '  H.  P.  Agnew  is  appointed  Superintendent  of 
bridges  of  the  new  division  with  headquarters  at 
Omaha,  vice  P.  C.  Hailey/  "  Bucks  read  on,  with 
some  little  surprise  growing  into  a  shock.  Then 
he  read  fast  looking  for  some  further  mention  of 
Hailey.  Hailey  promoted,  transferred,  assigned 
—  but  there  was  no  further  mention  of  Hailey  in 
G.  O.  Number  Fourteen.  Bucks  threw  down  the 
order  in  a  silence.  Ed  Peeto  broke  out  first. 

"  Who 's  H.  P.  Canoe  ?  " 

"  Agnew." 

"  Who  the  hell  is'he  ?  "  roared  Ed.  Nobody  an 
swered  :  nobody  knew.  Bucks  attempted  to  talk  ; 


8o  Held  for  Orders 

Callahan  lit  his  lighted  pipe ;  but  Ed  Peeto  stared 
at  Hailey  like  a  drunken  man. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  ?  "  he  snorted  at  his  superior. 

Hailey  nodded. 

"  You  're  out !  "  stormed  Peeto. 

Hailey  nodded.  The  bridge  foreman  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  dashed  it  into  the  stove.  He 
got  up  and  stamped  across  to  the  window  and  was 
like  to  have  sworn  the  glass  out  before  Hailey  spoke. 

u  I  'm  glad  we  're  up  to  high  water  at  the  Spider, 
Bucks,"  said  he  at  last.  "  When  they  get  in  the 
Peace  River  work,  the  division  will  run  itself  for  a 
year." 

"  Hailey,"  Bucks  spoke  slowly,  "  I  don't  need  to 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  it,  do  I  ?  It 's  a  damned 
shame.  But  it 's  what  I  Ve  said  for  a  year — no 
body  ever  knows  what  Omaha  will  do  next." 

Hailey  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Where  you  going, 
Phil  ?  "  asked  Bucks. 

"  Going  back  to  the  Spider  on  Number  Two." 

"  Not  going  back  this  morning  —  why  don't  you 
wait  for  Four,  to-night  ?  "  suggested  Bucks. 


The  Headmaster's  Story          81 

"Ed,"  Hailey  raised  his  voice  at  the  foreman, 
"  will  you  get  those  stay-bolts  and  chuck  them  into 
the  baggage-car  for  me  on  Number  Two  ?  I  'm 
going  over  to  the  house  for  a  minute."  He  forgot 
to  answer  Bucks ;  they  knew  what  it  meant.  He 
was  bracing  himself  to  tell  the  folks  before  he  left 
them.  Preparing  to  explain  why  he  would  n't 
have  the  Sunday  at  home  with  the  children.  Pre 
paring  to  tell  the  wife  —  and  the  old  man  —  that 
he  was  out.  Out  of  the  railroad  system  he  had 
given  his  life  to  help  build  up  and  make  what  it 
was.  Out  of  the  position  he  had  climbed  to  by 
studying  like  a  hermit  and  working  like  a  hobo. 
Out  —  without  criticism,  or  allegation,  or  reason 
—  simply,  like  a  dog,  out. 

Nobody  at  the  Wickiup  wanted  to  hear  the  tel 
ling  over  at  the  cottage  ;  nobody  wanted  to  imagine 
the  scene.  As  Number  Two's  mellow  chime 
whistle  rolled  down  the  gorge,  they  saw  Hailey  com 
ing  out  of  his  house,  his  wife  looking  after  him, 
and  two  little  girls  tugging  at  his  arms  as  he  hurried 
along ;  old  Denis  behind,  head  down,  carrying  the 
6 


82  Held  for  Orders 

boy's  shabby  valise,  trying  to  understand  why  the 
blow  had  fallen. 

That  was  what  Callahan  up  with  Bucks  at 
the  window  was  trying  to  figure  —  what  it  meant. 

"  The  man  that  looks  to  Omaha  for  rhyme  or 
reason  will  beggar  his  wits,  Callahan,"  said  Bucks 
slowly,  as  he  watched  Ed  Peeto  swing  the  stay- 
bolts  up  into  the  car  so  they  would  crack  the  bag 
gageman  across  the  shins,  and  then  try  to  get  him 
into  a  fight  about  it.  "They  never  had  a  man 
—  and  I  bar  none,  no,  not  Brodie  —  that  could 
handle  the  mountain-water  like  Hailey ;  they 
never  will  have  a  man  —  and  they  dump  him  out 
like  a  pipe  of  tobacco.  How  does  it  happen  we 
are  cursed  with  such  a  crew  of  blooming  idiots  ? 
Other  roads  are  n't." 

Callahan  made  no  answer.  "  I  know  why  they 
did  it,"  Bucks  went  on,  u  but  I  could  n't  tell 
Hailey." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  know  why.  Last  time  I  was  down, 
the  president  brought  his  name  up  and  asked  a  lot 


The  Headmaster's  Story          83 

of  questions  about  where  he  was  educated  and 
so  on.  Somebody  had  plugged  him,  I  could  see 
that  in  two  minutes.  I  gave  him  the  facts  —  told 
him  that  Brodie  had  given  him  his  education  as  an 
engineer.  The  minute  he  found  out  he  was  n't 
regularly  graduated,  he  froze  up.  Very  polite,  but 
he  froze  up.  See  ?  Experience,  actual  acquire 
ments,"  Bucks  extended  his  hand  from  his  vest 
pocket  in  an  odd  wavy  motion  till  it  was  lost  at 
arm's  length,  "nothing — nothing  —  nothing." 

As  he  concluded,  Hailey  was  climbing  behind  his 
father  into  the  smoker ;  Number  Two  pulled 
down  the  yard  and  out ;  one  thing  Hailey  meant 
to  make  sure  of —  that  they  should  n't  beat  him 
out  of  the  finish  of  the  Spider  bridge  as  he  had 
planned  it ;  one  monument  Hailey  meant  to  have 
—  one  he  has. 

The  new  superintendent  of  bridges  took  hold 
promptly  ;  we  knew  he  had  been  wired  for  long 
before  his  appointment  was  announced.  He  was 
a  good  enough  fellow,  I  guess,  but  we  all  hated 
him.  Bucks  did  the  civil,  though,  and  took  Agnew 


84  Held  for  Orders 

down  to  the  Spider  in  a  special  to  inspect  the  new 
work  and  introduce  him  to  the  man  whose  bread 
and  opportunity  he  was  taking.  "  I  've  been 
wanting  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Hailey,"  said  Agnew 
pleasantly  after  they  had  shaken  hands.  Hailey 
looked  at  Agnew  silently  as  he  spoke ;  Bucks 
looked  steadfastly  at  the  grasshopper  derrick. 

"  I  Ve  been  expecting  you  'd  be  along  pretty 
soon,"  replied  Hailey  presently.  "  There  's  con 
siderable  to  look  over  here.  After  that  we  '11  go 
back  to  Peace  River  canon.  We  're  just  getting 
things  started  there :  then  we  '11  run  up  to  the  Bend 
and  I  '11  turn  the  office  over." 

"  No  hurry  about  that.  You  've  got  a  good  deal 
of  a  bridge  here,  Mr.  Hailey  ?  " 

"  You  '11  need  a  good  deal  of  a  bridge  here." 

u  I  did  n't  expect  to  find  you  so  far  along  out  here 
in  the  mountains.  Where  did  you  get  that  pneu 
matic  process  ? " 

It  touched  Hailey,  the  pleasant,  easy  way  Agnew 
took  him.  The  courtesy  of  the  east  against  the 
blunt  of  the  west.  There  wasn't  a  mean  drop 


The  Headmaster's  Story  85 

anywhere  in  Hailey's  blood,  and  he  made  no  trouble 
whatever  for  his  successor. 

After  he  let  go  on  the  West  End  H alley  talked 
as  if  he  would  look  up  something  further  east.  He 
spoke  about  it  to  Bucks,  but  Bucks  told  him  frankly 
he  would  find  difficulty  without  a  regular  degree 
in  getting  a  satisfactory  connection.  Hailey  him 
self  realized  that ;  moreover,  he  seemed  reluctant 
to  quit  the  mountains.  He  acted  around  the  cot 
tage  and  the  Wickiup  like  a  man  who  has  lost 
something  and  who  looks  for  it  abstractedly  —  as 
one  might  feel  in  his  pockets  for  a  fishpole  or  a 
burglar.  But  there  were  lusty  little  Haileys  over 
at  the  cottage  to  be  looked  after,  and  Bucks,  losing 
a  roadmaster  about  that  time,  asked  Hailey  (after 
chewing  it  a  long  time  with  Callahan)  to  take  the 
place  himself  and  stay  on  the  staff.  He  even 
went  home  with  Hailey  and  argued  it. 

"  I  know  it  does  n't  seem  just  right,"  Bucks  put 
it,  "but,  Hailey,  you  must  remember  this  thing 
at  Omaha  isn't  going  to  last.  They  can't  run  a 
road  like  this  with  Harvard  graduates  and  Boston 


86  Held  for  Orders 

typewriters,  There  '11  be  an  entire  new  deal  down 
there  some  fine  day.  Stay  here  with  me,  and  I  '11 
say  this,  Hailey,  if  I  go,  ever,  you  go  with  me." 

And  Hailey,  sitting  with  his  head  between  his 
hands,  listening  to  his  wife  and  to  Bucks,  said,  one 
day,  "Enough,"  and  the  first  of  the  month  reported 
for  duty  as  roadmaster. 

Agnew,  meantime,  had  stopped  all  construction 
work  not  too  far  along  to  discontinue.  The  bridge 
at  the  Spider  fortunately  was  beyond  his  mandate ; 
it  was  finished  to  a  rivet  as  Hailey  had  planned  it. 
Three  spans,  two  piers,  and  a  pair  of  abutments 

—  solid  as  the  Tetons.     But  the  Peace  River  canon 
work  was  caught   in   the   air.     Hailey's    caissons 
gave  way  to  piles  which  pulled  the  cost  down  from 
one  hundred  to  seventy-five  thousand  dollars,  and 
incidentally  it  was  breathed   that  the  day  for   ex 
travagant  expenditures  on  the  West  End  was  past 

—  and  Bucks  dipped  a  bit  deeper  than  usual  into 
Callahan's    box    of    cross-cut,    and    rammed    the 
splintered  leaf  into  his  brier  a  bit  harder  and  said 
no  word. 


The  Headmaster's  Story          87 

"  But  if  we  lose  just  one  more  bridge  it 's  good 
bye  and  gone  to  the  California  fast  freight  busi 
ness,"  muttered  Callahan.  "  It  's  taken  two  years 
to  get  it  back  as  it  is.  Did  you  tell  the  president 
that  ? "  he  growled  at  Bucks,  smoking.  Bucks 
put  out  his  little  wave. 

"  I  told  him  everything.  I  told  him  we  could  n't 
stand  another  tie-up.  I  showed  them  all  the  re 
cords.  One  bridge  at  Peace  River,  three  at  the 
Spider  in  ten  years." 

"  What  did  they  say  ?  " 

"  Said  they  had  entire  confidence  in  Agnew's 
judgment;  very  eminent  authority  and  that  sort  — 
new  blood  was  making  itself  felt  in  every  depart 
ment  ;  that,  of  course,  was  fired  at  me  ;  but  they 
heard  all  I. intended  to  say,  just  the  same.  I  asked 
the  blooming  board  whether  they  wanted  my  resig 
nation  and  —  "  Bucks  paused  to  laugh  silently, 
"the  president  invited  me  up  to  the  Millard  to  dine 
with  him.  Hello,  Phil  Hailey  !  "  he  exclaimed  as 
the  new  roadmaster  walked  in  the  door.  "  Happy 
New  Year.  How  's  your  culverts,  old  boy  ?  Ed 


88  Held  for  Orders 

Peeto  said  yesterday  the  piles  were  going  in  down 
at  Peace  River." 

"  Just  as  good  as  concrete  as  long  as  they  stay 
in,"  smiled  Hailey,  "  and  they  do  cost  a  heap  less. 
This  is  great  bridge  weather  —  and  for  that  matter 
great  track  weather." 

We  had  no  winter  that  year  till  spring  ;  and  no 
spring  till  summer ;  and  it  was  a  spring  of  snow 
and  a  summer  of  water.  Down  below,  the  plains 
were  lost  in  the  snow  after  Easter  even,  the  snow 
that  brought  the  Blackwood  disaster  with  three 
engines  and  a  rotary  to  the  bad,  not  to  speak  of  old 
man  Sankey,  a  host  in  himself.  After  that  the 
snow  let  up ;  it  was  then  no  longer  a  matter  of 
keeping  the  line  clear;  it  was  a  matter  of  lashing 
the  track  to  the  right  of  way  to  keep  it  from  swim 
ming  clear.  Hailey  had  his  hands  full ;  he  caught 
it  all  the  while  and  worse  than  anybody,  but  he 
worked  like  two  men,  for  in  a  pinch  that  was  his 
way.  Bucks,  irritable  from  repeated  blows  of  for 
tune,  leaned  on  the  wiry  roadmaster  as  he  did  on 
Callahan  or  Neighbor.  Hailey  knew  Bucks  looked 


The  Headmaster's  Story  89 

to  him  for  the  track  and  he  strained  every  nerve 
making  ready  for  the  time  the  mountain  snows 
should  go  out. 

There  was  nobody  easy  on  the  West  End  :  and 
least  of  all  Hailey,  for  that  spring,  ahead  of  the 
suns,  ahead  of  the  thaws,  ahead  of  the  waters, 
came  a  going  out  that  unsettled  the  oldest  calcu 
lator  in  the  Wickiup.  Brodie's  old  friends  began 
coming  out  of  the  upper  country,  out  of  the  Spider 
valley.  Over  the  Eagle  pass  and  through  the  Peace 
canon  the  Sioux  came  in  parties  and  camps  and 
tribes  —  out  and  down  and  into  the  open  country. 
And  Bucks  stayed  them  and  talked  with  them. 
Talked  the  great  White  Father  and  the  Ghost  dance 
and  the  Bad  Agent.  But  the  Sioux  grunted  and 
did  not  talk ;  they  traveled.  Then  Bucks  spoke 
of  good  hunting,  far,  far  south;  if  they  were  uneasy 
Bucks  was  willing  they  should  travel  far,  for  it 
looked  like  a  rising.  Some  kind  of  a  rising  it  must 
have  been  to  take  the  Indians  out  of  winter  quarters 
at  such  a  time.  After  Bucks,  Hailey  tried,  and  the 
braves  listened  for  they  knew  Hailey  and  when  he 


90  Held  for  Orders 

accused  them  of  fixing  for  fight  they  shook  theii 
heads,  denied,  and  turned  their  faces  to  the  moun 
tains.  They  stretched  their  arms  straight  out  under 
their  blankets  like  stringers  and  put  out  their  palms, 
downward,  and  muttered  to  Hailey. 

"  Plenty  snow." 

u  I  reckon  they're  lying,"  said  Bucks,  listening. 
"  There  's  some  deviltry  up.  They  're  not  the  kind 
to  clear  out  for  snow." 

Hailey  made  no  comment.  Only  looked  thought 
fully  at  the  ponies  shambling  along,  the  squaws 
trudging,  the  braves  loitering  to  ask  after  the  fire 
water  chief  who  slept  under  a  cairn  of  stones  off 
the  right  of  way  above  the  yard.  Bucks  did  n't 
believe  it.  He  could  fancy  rats  deserting  a  sink 
ing  ship,  because  he  had  read  of  such  things  —  but 
Indians  clearing  out  for  snow  ! 

a  Not  for  snow,  nor  for  water,"  muttered  Bucks, 
"  unless  it 's  fire-water."  And  once  more  the  red 
man  was  misunderstood. 

Now  the  Spider  wakes  regularly  twice ;  at  all 
other  times  irregularly.  Once  in  April;  that  is 


The  Headmaster's  Story          91 

the  foothills  water  :  once  in  June  ;  that  is  the  moun 
tain  water.  And  the  June  rise  is  like  this/''  N. 
But  the  April  rise  is  like  this ^ — . 

Now  came  an  April  without  any  rise  ;  that  April 
nothing  rose  —  except  the  snow.  u  We  shall  get 
it  all  together,"  suggested  Bucks  one  night. 

"Or  will  it  get  us  altogether?  "  asked  Hailey. 

u  Either  way,"  said  Callahan,  "  it  will  be  mostly 
at  once." 

May  opened  bleaker  than  April  ;  even  the  track 
men  walked  with  set  faces ;  the  dirtiest  half-breed 
on  the  line  knew  now  what  the  mountains  held. 
At  last,  while  we  looked  and  wondered,  came  a  very 
late  Chinook ;  July  in  May ;  then  the  water. 


II 

SECTION  gangs  were   doubled  and  track 
walkers  put  on.     By-passes  were   opened, 
bridge     crews     strengthened,     everything 
buckled  for  grief.     Gullies  began  to  race,  culverts  to 
choke,  creeks  to  tumble,  rivers  to  madden.  From  the 


92  Held  for  Orders 

Muddy  to  the  Summit  the  water  courses  swelled  ana 
boiled  —  all  but  the  Spider  j  the  big  river  slept. 
Through  May  and  into  June  the  Spider  slept ;  but 
Hailey  was  there  at  the  Wickiup,  always,  and  with 
one  eye  running  over  all  the  line,  one  eye  turned 
always  to  the  Spider  where  two  men  and  two,  night 
and  day,  watched  the  lazy  surface  water  trickle  over 
and  through  the  vagabond  bed  between  Hailey's 
monumental  piers.  Never  an  hour  did  the  operat 
ing  department  lose  to  the  track.  East  and  west 
of  us  railroads  everywhere  clamored  in  despair. 
The  flood  reached  from  the  Rockies  to  the  Alle- 
ghenies.  Our  trains  never  missed  a  trip ;  our 
schedules  were  unbroken ;  our  people  laughed  ;  we 
got  the  business,  dead  loads  of  it ;  our  treasury 
flowed  over ;  and  Hailey  watched ;  and  the  Spider 
slept. 

Big  Ed  Peeto,  still  foreman  of  the  bridges,  hung 
on  Hailey's  steps  and  tried  with  his  staring,  swear 
ing  eye  to  make  it  all  out ;  to  guess  what  Hailey 
expected  to  happen,  for  it  was  plain  he  was  think 
ing.  Whether  smoking  or  speaking,  whether  wak- 


The  Headmaster's  Story          93 

ing  or  sleeping,  he  was  thinking.  And  as  May  turned 
soft  and  hot  into  June  with  every  ditch  bellying  and 
the  mountains  still  buried,  it  put  us  all  thinking. 

On  the  3Oth  there  was  trouble  beyond  Wild  Hat 
and  all  our  extra  men,  put  out  there  under  Hailey, 
were  fighting  to  hold  the  Rat  valley  levels  where 
they  hug  the  river  on  the  west  slope.  It  was  n't 
really  Hailey's  track.  Bucks  sent  him  over  there 
because  he  sent  Hailey  wherever  the  Emperor  sent 
Ney.  Sunday  while  Hailey  was  at  Wild  Hat  it 
began  raining.  Sunday  it  rained.  Monday  it 
rained  all  through  the  mountains ;  Tuesday  it  was 
raining  from  Omaha  to  Eagle  pass,  with  the  ther 
mometer  climbing  for  breath  and  the  barometer 
flat  as  an  adder  —  and  the  Spider  woke. 

Woke  with  the  April  water  and  the  June  water 
and  the  rain  water  all  at  once.  Trackmen  at  the 
bridge  Tuesday  night  flagged  Number  One  and  re 
ported  the  river  wild,  and  sheet  ice  running.  A 
wire  from  Bucks  brought  Hailey  out  of  the  west 
and  into  the  east ;  and  brought  him  to  reckon  for 
the  last  time  with  his  ancient  enemy. 


94  Held  for  Orders 

He  was  against  it  Wednesday  morning 
mite.  All  the  day,  the  night  and  the  next  day  the 
sullen  roar  of  the  giant  powder  shook  the  ice-jams. 
Two  days  more  he  spent  there  watching,  with  only 
an  occasional  thunderbolt  to  heave  and  scatter  the 
Spider  water  into  sudden,  shivery  columns  of  spray  ; 
then  he  wired,  "  ice  out,"  and  set  back  dragged 
and  silent  for  home  and  for  sleep  —  ten  hours  out 
of  two  hundred,  maybe,  was  all  he  reckoned  to  the 
good  when  he  struck  a  pillow  again.  Saturday 
night  he  slept  and  Sunday  all  day  and  Sunday  night. 
Monday  about  noon  Bucks  sent  up  to  ask,  but  Hailey 
was  asleep ;  they  asked  back  by  the  lad  whether 
they  should  wake  him ;  Bucks  sent  word,  "  No." 

Tuesday  morning  the  tall  roadmaster  came 
down  fresh  as  sunshine  and  all  day  he  worked  with 
Bucks  and  the  despatchers  watching  the  line.  The 
Spider  raced  like  the  Missouri,  and  the  men  at 
the  bridge  sent  in  panic  messages  every  night  and 
morning,  but  Hailey  lit  his  pipe  with  their  alarms. 
u  That  bridge  will  go  when  the  mountains  go," 
was  all  he  said. 


The  Headmaster's  Story          95 

Tuesday  was  his  wedding  date,  old  Denis  told 
Peeto;  it  was  Hailey 's  wooden  wedding,  and  when  he 
found  everybody  knew  they  were  going  to  have  a  lit 
tle  spread  over  at  the  cottage,  Hailey  invited  the  boys 
up  for  the  evening.  Just  a  little  celebration,  Hailey 
said,  and  everybody  he  spoke  wrung  his  hand  and 
slapped  his  iron  shoulders  till  Hailey  echoed  good 
cheer  through  and  through.  Callahan  was  going 
over ;  Bucks  had  promised  to  look  in,  and  Ed  Peeto 
and  the  boys  had  a  little  surprise  for  Hailey,  had  it 
in  the  dark  of  the  baggage-room  in  the  Wickiup,  a 
big  Morris  chair.  No  one  would  ever  guess  how 
it  landed  at  Medicine  Bend,  but  it  was  easy.  Ed 
Peeto  had  pulled  it  badly  demoralized  out  of  a 
freight  wreck  at  the  Sugar  Buttes  and  done  it  over 
in  company  screws  and  varnish  to  surprise  Hailey. 
The  anniversary  made  it  just  right,  very  hot  stuff, 
Ed  Peeto  said,  and  the  company  had  undoubtedly 
paid  a  claim  voucher,  for  it  —  or  would. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  night,  and  every  star  blink 
ing  when  Hailey  looked  in  again  at  the  office  for 
the  track-walkers'  reports  and  the  Railway  weather 


96  Held  for  Orders 

bulletins.  Bucks,  Callahan,  and  Peeto  sat  about 
Duffy,  who  in  his  shirt-sleeves  threw  the  stuff  out 
off  the  sounder  as  it  trickled  in  dot  and  dash,  dot 
and  dash  over  the  wires.  The  west  wire  was  good 
but  east  everything  below  Peace  River  was  down. 
We  had  to  get  the  eastern  reports  around  by  Omaha 
and  the  south  —  a  good  thousand  miles  of  a  loop  — 
but  bad  news  travels  even  round  a  Robin  Hood  loop. 

And  Wild  Hat  came  first  from  the  west  with  a 
stationary  river  and  the  Loup  creek  falling  —  clear 
—  good  night.  And  Ed  Peeto  struck  the  table 
heavily  and  swore  it  was  well  in  the  west.  Then 
from  the  east  came  Prairie  Portage,  all  the  way  round, 
with  a  northwest  rain,  a  rising  river,  and  anchor  ice 
pounding  the  piers  badly,  track  in  fair  shape  and  — 
and  — 

The  wire  went  wrong.  As  Duffy  knit  his  eyes 
and  tugged  and  cussed  a  little  the  wind  outside  took 
up  the  message  and  whirled  a  bucket  of  rain  against 
the  windows.  But  the  wires  would  n't  right  and  stuff 
that  no  man  could  get  tumbled  in  like  a  dictionary 
upside  down.  And  Bucks  and  Callahan  and  Hailev 


The  Roadmaster's  Story          97 

and  Peeto  smoked,  silent,  and  listened  to  the  deepen 
ing  drum  of  the  rain  on  the  roof. 

Then  Duffy  wrestled  mightily  yet  once  more, 
and  the  long  way  came  word  of  trouble  in  the  Omaha 
yards  with  the  river  at  twenty-two  feet  and  cutting ; 
rising  at  Bismarck  one  foot  an  hour. 

"  Hell  to  pay  on  the  Missouri,  of  'course,"  growled 
the  foreman,  staring  single-eyed  at  the  inoffensive 
bulletin.  "  Well,  she  don't  run  our  way ;  let  her 
boil,  damn  her." 

"  Keep  still,"  exclaimed  Duffy,  leaning  heavily 
on  the  key.  "Here's  something — from  —  the 
Spider." 

Only  the  hum  of  the  rain  and  the  nervous  break  of 
the  sounder  cut  the  smoke  that  curled  from  the  pipes. 
Duffy  snatched  a  pen  and  ran  it  across  a  clip,  and 
Bucks  leaning  over  read  aloud  from  his  shoulder  : 

"  Omaha. 

"J.  F.BUCKS. — Trainmen  from  Number  Seventy- 
Five  stalled  west  of  Rapid  City  —  track  afloat  irj 
Simpson's  cut — report  Spider  bridge  out  send — " 

And  the  current  broke. 

7 


98  Held  for  Orders 

Callahan's  hand  closed  rigidly  over  his  pipe ;  Peeto 
sat  speechless ;  Bucks  read  again  at  the  broken 
message,  but  Hailey  sprang  like  a  man  wounded  anH 
snatched  the  clip  from  his  superintendent's  hand. 

He  stared  at  the  running  words  till  they  burnt 
his  eyes  and  then,  with  an  oath,  frightful  as  the  thun 
der  that  broke  down  the  mountains,  he  dashed  the 
clip  to  the  floor.  His  eyes  snapped  greenish  with 
fury  and  he  cursed  Omaha,  cursed  its  messages 
and  everything  that  came  out  of  it.  Slow  at  first, 
but  bitter,  then  fast  and  faster  until  all  the  sting 
that  poisoned  his  heart  in  his  unjust  discharge  poured 
from  his  lips.  It  flooded  the  room  like  a  spilling 
stream  and  no  man  put  a  word  against  it  for  they 
knew  he  stood  a  wronged  man.  Out  it  came  — 
all  the  rage  —  all  the  heart-burning  —  all  the  bitter 
ness  —  and  he  dropped,  bent,  into  a  chair  and  cov 
ered  his  face  with  his  hands  :  only  the  sounder  click 
ing  iron  jargon  and  the  thunder  shaking  the  W  ickiup 
like  a  reed  filled  the  ears  about  him.  They  watched 
him  slowly  knot  his  fingers  and  loosen  them,  and  saw 
his  face  rise  dry  and  hard  and  old  out  of  his  hands. 


The  Headmaster's  Story          99 

u  Get  up  an  engine  !  " 

«  Not  —  you  're  not  going  down  there  to-night  ? " 
stammered  Bucks, 

"  Yes.  Now.  Right  off.  Peeto !  Get  out 
your  crew  !  " 

The  foreman  jumped  for  the  door  ;  Bucks  hesi 
tated  barely  an  instant,  then  turning  where  he  sat  cut 
a  telephone  plug  into  the  roundhouse ;  Callahan 
saw  him  act  and  leaning  forward  spoke  low  to  Duffy. 
The  despatcher  snatching  the  train  sheet  began  in 
stantly  clearing  track  for  a  bridge  special. 

In  twenty  minutes  twenty  men  were  running 
twenty  ways  through  the  storm  and  a  live  engine 
boomed  under  the  Wickiup  windows. 

"  Phil,  I  want  you  to  be  careful !  "  It  was  Bucks 
standing  by  the  roadmaster's  side  at  the  window 
as  they  looked  out  into  the  storm.  "  It 's  a  bad 
night."  Hailey  made  no  answer.  u  A  wicked 
night,"  muttered  Bucks  as  the  lightning  shot  the 
yards  in  a  blaze  and  a  crash  rolled  down  the  gorge. 
But  wicked  as  it  was  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
countermand;  something  forbade  it.  Evans  the 
conductor  of  the  special  ran  in. 


ioo  Held  for  Orders 

u  Here 's  your  orders  !  "  exclaimed  Duffy.  Evans 
pulling  down  his  storm  cap  nodded  as  he  took  the 
tissue.  Hailey  buttoned  his  leatherjacket  and  turned 
to  Bucks. 

"  Good-by." 

"  Mind  your  track,"  said  Bucks,  warningly  to 
Evans  as  he  took  Hailey's  hand.  "  What 's  your 
permit  ? " 

"  Forty  miles  an  hour." 

"  Don't  stretch  it.  Good-by,  Phil,"  he  added, 
speaking  to  Hailey.  "  I  '11  see  you  in  the  morning." 

"  In  the  morning,"  repeated  Hailey.  u  Good- 
by.  Nothing  more  in,  Duffy  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more." 

"  Come  on !  "  With  the  words  he  pushed  the  con 
ductor  through  the  door  and  was  gone.  The  switch 
engine  puffed  up  with  the  caboose.  Ahead  of  it 
Ed  Peeto  had  coupled  in  the  pile  driver.  At  the 
last  minute  Callahan  asked  to  go,  and  as  the  bridge 
gang  tumbled  into  the  caboose,  the  assistant  super 
intendent,  Ed  Peeto,  and  Hailey  climbed  into  the 
engine.  Denis  Mullenix  sat  on  the  right  and  with 


The  Headmaster's  Story        101 

William  Durden,  fireman,  they  pulled  out,  five  in 
the  cab,  for  the  Spider  Water. 

From  Medicine  Bend  to  the  Spider  Water  is  a 
ninety  mile  run  ;  down  the  gorge,  through  the  foot 
hills  and  into  the  Painted  Desert  that  fills  the  jaw 
of  the  spur  we  intersect  again  west  of  Peace  River. 
From  the  Peace  to  the  Spider  the  crow  flies  twenty 
miles,  but  we  take  thirty  for  it ;  there  is  hardly  a 
tangent  between.  Their  orders  set  a  speed  limit, 
but  from  the  beginning  they  crowded  it.  Hailey, 
moody  at  first,  began  joking  and  laughing  the  minute 
they  got  away.  He  sat  behind  Denis  Mullenix 
on  the  right  and  poked  at  his  ribs  and  taunted  him 
with  his  heavy  heels.  After  a  bit  he  got  down  and 
threw  coal  for  "Durden,  mile  after  mile,  and 
crowded  the  boiler  till  the  safety  screamed. 
When  Durden  took  the  shovel  Hailey  put  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  Callahan,  who  was  trying  to  hang 
to  big  Ed  Peeto  on  the  fireman's  seat. 

"  Callahan,"  he  yelled  in  his  ear, u  a  man  *s  better 

ofF "  And  Callahan,  though  he  could  n't,  in 

the  pound  and  the  roar,  catch  the  words,  nodded 


102  Held  for  Orders 

and  laughed  because  Hailey  fiercely  laughed.  Then 
going  around  to  the  right  the  roadmaster  covered 
Denis  Mullenix's  fingers  on  the  throttle  latch  and 
the  air  with  his  big  hands  and  good-naturedly  coaxed 
them  loose,  pushed  the  engineer  back  and  got  the 
whip  and  the  reins  into  his  own  keeping.  It  was 
what  he  wanted,  for  he  smiled  as  he  drew  out  the 
bar  a  notch  and  settled  himself  for  the  run  across 
the  flat  country.  They  were  leaving  the  foothills, 
and  when  the  lightning  opened  the  night  they  could 
see  behind  through  the  blasting  rain  the  great  hulk 
ing  pile  driver  nod  and  reel  out  into  the  Painted 
Desert  like  a  drunken  man ;  for  Hailey's  schedule 
was  the  wind  and  his  limit  the  wide  throttle. 

The  storm  shook  them  with  freshening  fury  and 
drove  the  flanges  into  the  south  rail  with  a  grinding 
shriek,  as  they  sped  from  the  shelter  of  the  hills. 
The  rain  fell  in  a  sheet,  and  the  right  of  way  ran 
a  river.  The  wind,  whipping  the  water  off  the 
ballast,  dashed  it  like  hail  against  the  cab  glass ;  the 
segment  of  desert  caught  in  the  yellow  of  the  head 
light  rippled  and  danced  and  swam  in  the  storm 


The  Roadmaster's  Story        103 

water,  and  Hailey  pulled  again  at  the  straining  throttle 
and  latched  it  wider.  Callahan  hung  with  a  hand 
to  a  brace  and  a  hand  to  Peeto,  and  every  little 
while  looked  back  at  the  caboose  dancing  a  horn 
pipe  over  the  joints ;  Mullenix,  working  the  injec 
tor,  stared  astonished  at  Hailey  ;  but  Durden  grimly 
sprinkled  new  blood  into  the  white  furnace  and  eyed 
his  stack. 

Notch  after  notch  Hailey  drew,  heedless  of  lurch 
and  jump ;  heedless  of  bed  or  curve ;  heedless  of 
track  or  storm ;  and  with  every  spur  at  her  cylin 
ders  the  engine  shook  like  a  frantic  horse.  Men 
and  monster  alike  lost  thought  of  care  and  drunk 
a  frenzy  in  the  deafening  whirl  that  Hailey  opened 
across  the  swimming  plain. 

The  Peace  River  hills  loomed  into  the  headlight 
like  moving  pictures  ;  before  they  could  think  it,  the 
desert  was  behind.  Callahan,  white-faced,  climbed 
down,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  by  Durden  and 
Mullenix  got  his  hands  on  Hailey's  shoulders  and 
his  lips  to  his  ear. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Phil,  let  up !  " 


104  Held  for  Orders 

Hailey  nodded  and  choked  the  steam  a  little. 
Threw  a  hatful  of  air  on  the  shoes,  but  more  as  a 
test  than  a  check :  the  fire  was  in  his  blood  and  he 
slewed  into  the  hills  with  a  speed  unslackened. 
From  the  rocks  it  is  a  down  grade  all  the  way  to  the 
canon,  and  the  wind  blew  them  and  the  track  pulled 
them  and  a  frenzied  man  sat  at  the  throttle.  Just 
where  the  line  crosses  Peace  River  the  track  bends 
sharply  in  through  the  Needles  to  take  the  bridge. 

The  curve  is  a  ten  degree.  As  they  struck  it,  the 
headlight  shot  far  out  upon  the  river — and  they  in 
the  cab  knew  they  were  dead  men.  Instead  of 
lighting  the  box  of  the  truss  the  lamp  lit  a  black  and 
snaky  flood  sweeping  over  the  abutment  with  yel 
low  foam.  The  Peace  had  licked  up  Agnew's 
thirty-foot  piles  and  his  bridge  was  not. 

Whatever  could  be  done  —  and  Hailey  knew  all 
—  meant  death  to  the  cab.  Denis  Mullenix  never 
moved ;  no  man  that  knew  Hailey  would  think  of 
trying  to  supplant  him  even  with  death  under  the 
ponies.  He  did  what  a  man  could  do.  There  was 
no  chance  anyway  for  the  cab:  but  the  caboose 
held  twenty  of  his  faithful  men. 


The  Roadmaster's  Story        105 

He  checked  —  and  with  a  scream  from  the  flanges 
the  special,  shaking  in  the  clutches  of  the  air-brake, 
swung  the  curve. 

Again,  the  roadmaster  checked  heavily.  The 
leads  of  the  pile  driver  swaying  high  above  gravity 
center  careened  for  an  instant  wildly  to  the  tangent, 
then  the  monster  machine,  parting  from  the  tender, 
took  the  elevation  like  a  hurdle  and  shot  into  the 
trees,  dragging  the  caboose  after  it.  But  engine  and 
tender  and  five  in  the  cab  plunged  head  on  into  the 
Peace. 

Not  a  man  in  the  caboose  was  killed  ;  it  was  as 
if  Hailey  had  tempered  the  blow  to  its  crew.  They 
scrambled  out  of  the  splinters  and  on  their  feet,  men 
and  ready  to  do.  One  voice  from  below  came 
to  them  through  the  storm,  and  they  answered  its 
calling.  It  was  Callahan  ;  but  Burden,  Mullenix, 
Peeto,  Hailey,  never  called  again. 

At  daybreak  wreckers  of  the  West  End,  swarm 
ing  from  mountain  and  plain,  were  heading  for  the 
Peace,  and  the  McCloud  gang  —  up  —  crossed  the 
Spider  on  Hailey  's  bridge  —  on  the  bridge  the  coward 


106  Held  for  Orders 

trainmen  had  reported  out,  quaking  as  they  did  in 
the  storm  at  the  Spider  foaming  over  its  approaches. 
But  Hailey's  bridge  stood — stands  to-day. 

Yet  three  days  the  Spider  raged,  and  knew  then 
its  master,  while  he,  three  whole  days  sat  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  Peace  clutching  the  engine  levers  in  the 
ruins  of  Agnew's  mistake. 

And  when  the  divers  got  them  up,  Callahan  and 
Bucks  tore  big  Peeto's  arms  from  his  master's  body 
and  shut  his  staring  eye  and  laid  him  at  his  master's 
side.  And  only  the  Spider  ravening  at  Hailey's 
caissons  raged.  But  Hailey  slept. 


M-Terza 


V 


Held    for    Orders 


The  Striker's  Story 


McTERZA 


The  Striker's  Story 


McTERZA 

I  WOULD  not  call  her  common.     Not  that  I 
would  be  afraid  to,  though  most  of  the  boys 
were  more  or  less  afraid  of  Mrs.  Mullenix, 
but  simply  that  it  would  n't  be  right  —  not  in  my 
opinion. 

She  kept  a  short  order  house,  let  that  be  admitted 
at  once,  but  her  husband  was  long  a  West  End  engi 
neer.  Denis  Mullenix  went  into  the  Peace  with 
Hailey  and  Ed  Peeto  and  Durden  the  night  of  the 
big  June  water  on  the  West  End.  The  company 
did  n't  treat  her  just  right.  I  was  a  strong  company 
man,  although  I  went  out  with  the  boys.  But  I 
say,  and  I  Jve  always  said,  the  company  did  not  treat 
Mrs.  Mullenix  just  right. 


no  Held  for  Orders 

A  widow,  and  penniless,  she  bought  the  eating- 
house  at  McCloud  with  the  few  hundreds  they  gave 
her. 

There  were  five  young  Mullenixes,  and  they  were, 
every  one,  star  children,  from  Sinkers,  who  was  foxy, 
to  Kate,  who  was  not  merely  fine,  she  was  royal. 
Twenty,  and  straight,  and  true,  with  a  complexion 
like  sunrise  and  hair  like  a  sunset.  Kate  kept  the 
cottage  going,  and  Mrs.  Mullen ix  ruled  personally 
in  the  eating-house  and  in  the  short  order  annex. 
Any  one  that  has  tasted  a  steak  grilled  swell  in 
Chicago  or  in  Denver,  and  tasted  one  broiled  plain 
by  Mrs.  Mullenix  in  McCloud,  half  a  block  from 
the  depot,  can  easily  understand  why  the  boys  be 
haved  well.  As  for  her  coffee,  believe  it  or  not, 
we  owe  most  of  our  world-famous  West  End  runs, 
not  so  much  to  the  Baldwin  Locomotive  Works, 
renowned  as  they  are,  nor  to  Mr.  George  Westing- 
house,  prince  of  inventors  though  we  rank  him  — 
but  to  the  coffee  drawn  by  Mrs.  Mary  Mullenix ; 
honor  where  honor  is  due. 

Mrs.  Mullenix's  coffee  for  many  years  made  the 


The  Striker's  Story  1 1 1 

boys  hot :  what  now  makes  them  hot  is  that  she 
can't  be  persuaded  to  draw  it  for  anybody  except 
McTerza,  and  they  claim  that 's  the  way  he  holds 
the  Yellow  Mail  with  the  808 ;  but  all  the  same 
McTerza  is  fast  stuff,  coffee  or  no  coffee. 

They  were  none  of  them  boisterous  men,  those 
Reading  engineers  who  took  our  jobs  after  the  strike  j 
but  McTerza  was  an  oyster,  except  that  he  could  n't 
be  swallowed. 

McTerza  did  n't  give  up  very  much  to  anybody; 
not  even  to  his  own  chums,  Foley  and  Sinclair. 
The  fact  is  he  was  diffident,  owing,  maybe,  to  a  hesi 
tation  in  his  speech.  It  was  funny,  the  bit  of  a  halt, 
but  not  so  odd  as  his  disposition,  which  approached 
that  of  a  grizzly.  He  had  impudence  and  indiffer 
ence  and  quiet  —  plenty  of  each. 

There  was  one  place  up  street  that  was,  in  spe 
cial  and  particular,  headquarters  for  the  bad  men  in 
our  crowd  —  for  we  had  some — Catling's  billiard 
hall.  Foley  himself  never  had  the  nerve  to  tackle 
Catling's.  But  one  night,  all  alone  and  come  from 
nobody  knew  where,  the  hall  stuffed  with  striking 


1 1 2  Held  for  Orders 

men  who  had  tasted  blood  that  very  day —  McTerza 
walked  into  Catling's. 

It  was  like  a  yearling  strolling  into  a  canon  full 
of  wolves.  They  were  so  surprised  at  first  they 
could  n't  bite,  but  pretty  soon  they  got  McTerza 
up  against  a  mirror  and  began  pasting  pool  balls  at 
him. 

When  Ed  Banks  arrived  it  was  as  bad  as  a  rapid- 
fire  gun,  and  he  carried  McTerza  out  the  side  door 
like  a  warm  tapioca  pudding.  When  the  fellow  got 
round  again,  though,  he  was  just  as  careless  as  ever. 

It  was  pretty  generally  understood  that  in  the 
strike  the  short  order  house  was  with  us.  Mrs. 
Mullenix  had  reason  to  feel  bitter  toward  the  com 
pany,  and  it  became  speedily  known  that  Mrs. 
Mullenix's  was  not  a  healthy  place  for  the  men 
who  took  our  engines  ;  their  money  was  not  wanted. 
In  fact,  none  of  the  new  men  cVer  tried  to  get 
service  there  except  McTerza.  McTerza  one 
morning  dropped  into  the  short  order  house. 

"  Coffee,"  said  he ;  he  always  cut  things  short 
because  he  was  afraid  he  would  get  hung  up  between 


The  Striker's  Story  113 

stations  in  remarks.  Mrs.  Mullenix,  sick,  had  to 
manage  as  she  could.  Kate  was  looking  after 
things  that  day  at  the  restaurant,  and  she  was 
alone.  She  looked  at  McTerza  chillingly.  Kate 
had  more  than  enough  instinct  to  tell  a  Reading 
man  from  the  Brotherhood  type.  She  turned  in 
silence,  and  she  poured  a  cup  of  coffee,  but  from 
the  night  tank :  it  was  the  grossest  indignity  that 
could  be  perpetrated  on  a  man  in  the  short  order 
management.  She  set  it  with  little  of  civility  and 
less  of  sugar  before  McTerza,  and  pushing  her 
girdle  down,  coldly  walked  front,  half  perched  on 
a  stool,  and  looked  listlessly  out  the  window. 

"  Cool,"  ventured  McTerza  as  he  stirred  a  lump 
of  sugar  hopefully  into  his  purchase.  Kate  made 
no  comment  on  the  observation  ;  the  thing  appeared 
self-evident. 

"  Could  I  have  a  little  c-c-condensed  milk  ?  " 
inquired  McTerza  presently.  "  This  sc-sc-scream 
looks  pretty  rich,"  he  added,  stirring  thoughtfully  as 
he  spoke  at  the  pot  of  mustard,  which  was  the  only 
liquid  in  sight. 

8 


H4  Held  for  Orders 

Kate  Mullenix  glared  contemptuously  at  him,  but 
she  passed  out  a  jug  of  cream  —  and  it  was  cream. 
From  the  defiance  on  her  face  as  she  resumed  her 
attitude  she  appeared  to  expect  a  protest  about  the 
cold  coffee.  None  came.  McTerza  drank  the 
stuff  very  slowly,  blowing  it  carefully  the  while 
as  if  it  was  burning  him  up.  It  vexed  Kate. 

"  How  much  ?  "  asked  McTerza  humbly,  as  he 
swallowed  the  last  drop  before  it  froze  to  the  spoon, 
and  fished  for  a  dime  to  square  his  account. 

"  Twenty-five  cents."  He  started  slightly  but 
reached  again  into  his  pocket  and  without  a  word 
produced  a  quarter.  Kate  swept  it  Into  the  drawer 
with  the  royal  indifference  of  a  circus  faker  and 
resumed  her  stool. 

"  C-c-could  I  get  another  c-c-cup  ?  "  asked 
McTerza  patiently.  It  looked  like  a  defiance; 
however  she  boldly  poured  a  second  cup  of  the 
cold  coffee,  and  McTerza  tackled  it. 

After  an  interval  of  silence  he  spoke  again. 
"  Do  you  sell  tickets  on  c-coffee  here  ?  "  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  questioning  insolence.  "  I 


The  Striker's  Story  1 1 5 

mean,  c-could  a  fellow  buy  a  chance  —  or  get  into 
a  raffle  —  on  the  h-h-h-hot  tank  ?  "  asked  McTerza, 
throwing  a  sad  glance  on  the  live  coffee  urn,  which 
steamed  cozily  beside  its  silent  companion. 

"  That  tank  is  empty,"  snapped  Kate  Mullenix 
recklessly,  for  in  spite  of  herself  she  was  getting 
confused. 

"  If  it  is,"  suggested  McTerza,  peering  gravely 
underneath  at  the  jet  of  gas  that  blazed  merrily, 
"  you  ought  to  draw  your  fire  :  you  *re  liable  to 
b-b-burn  your  c-c-crown-sheet." 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  demanded  Kate  angrily  ; 
"  is  your  coffee  cold  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  responded,  shaking  his  head  and 
waiting  for  the  surprising  disclaimer  to  sink  in. 
"  Not  exactly  cold.  It 's  just  dead." 

u  We  don't  serve  Reading  men  here,"  retorted 
Kate  defiantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  responded  McTerza, 
brightening  at  once.  "You  serve  them  like 
t-t-tramps."  Then  after  a  pause  :  "  Could  I  get 
a  cigar  ? " 


1 1 6  Held  for  Orders 

«  Yes." 

"  How  much  is  that  kind  ?  " 

u  Fifty  cents,"  snapped  Kate,  glancing  into  the 
street  for  some  friendly  striker  to  appear. 

u  I  want  a  good  one." 

"  That 's  a  good  one." 

"  Fifty  cents  a  b-b-box  ?  " 

u  Fifty  cents  apiece." 

"  Give  me  a  small  one,  please." 

He  put  down  a  dollar  bill  as  he  took  the  cigar. 
She  threw  a  half  back  on  the  case.  At  that  mo 
ment  in  walked  two  of  our  boys,  Curtis  Rucker 
and  Ben  Nicholson.  McTerza  had  a  great  chance 
to  walk  out,  but  he  did  n't  improve  it.  Rucker 
and  Ben  were  Reds,  both  of  them.  Ben,  in  fact, 
was  an  old  terror  at  best.  Curtis  Rucker  was  a 
blackish,  quick  young  fellow,  fine  as  silk  in  a  cab, 
but  a  devil  in  a  strike,  and  what  was  more,  a  great 
admirer  of  Kate  Mullenix,  and  the  minx  knew  it. 
As  McTerza  bit  off  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  reached 
for  the  gas-lighter  he  noticed  that  her  face  lighted 
wonderfully. 


The  Striker's  Story  1 1 7 

With  a  smile  the  newcomers  called  for  coffee, 
and  with  a  smile  they  got  it.  McTerza,  smoking 
quietly  at  the  cigar-case,  watched  the  steaming 
liquid  pour  from  the  empty  tank.  It  was  a  dis 
piriting  revelation,  but  he  only  puffed  leisurely  on. 
When  Kate  glanced  his  way,  as  she  presently  did, 
disdainfully,  McTerza  raised  his  finger,  and  pointed 
to  the  change  she  had  thrown  at  him. 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  Mistake." 

The  strikers  pricked  up  their  ears. 

u  There  is  n't  any  mistake,  sir.  I  told  you  the 
cigars  were  fifty  cents  each,"  replied  Kate  Mullenix. 
Rucker  pushed  back  his  coffee,  and  sliding  off  his 
stool  walked  forward. 

"  Change  is  n't  right,"  persisted  McTerza,  look 
ing  at  Kate  Mullenix. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

u  You  forgot  to  take  out  twenty-five  cents  more 
for  that  last  cup  of  c-c-coffee,"  stammered  the 
Reading  man.  Kate  took  up  the  coin  and  handed 
a  quarter  back  from  the  register. 


Held  for  Orders 

"  That 's  right,"  put  in  Rucker  promptly, "  make 
the  scabs  p-p-pay  for  what  they  g-g-get.  They  're 
sp-p-p-pending  our  money."  The  hesitating  Read 
ing  man  appeared  for  the  first  time  aware  of  an 
enemy  ;  interested  for  the  first  time  in  the  abuse 
that  had  been  continually  heaped  on  him  since 
he  came  to  town  :  it  appeared  at  last  to  reach 
him.  He  returned  Rucker's  glare. 

"  You  call  me  a  scab,  do  you  ?  "  he  said  at  last 
and  with  the  stutter  all  out.  "  I  belong  to  a  labor 
order  that  counts  thousands  to  your  hundreds. 
Your  scabs  came  in  and  took  our  throttles  on  the 
Reading  —  why  should  n't  we  pull  your  latches  out 
here  ?  Your  strike  is  beat,  my  buck,  and  Reading 
men  beat  it.  You  had  better  look  for  a  job  on  a 
threshing  machine." 

Rucker  jumped  for  McTerza,  and  they  mixed 
like  clouds  in  a  cyclone.  For  a  minute  it  was  a 
whirlwind,  and  nothing  could  be  made  of  it ;  but 
when  they  could  be  seen  McTerza  had  the  best 
man  in  our  camp  pinned  under  a  table  with  his 
throat  in  one  hand  like  the  latch  of  a  throttle. 


The  Striker's  Story  1 1 9 

Nicholson  at  the  same  moment  raising  an  oak  stool 
smashed  it  over  McTerza's  head.  The  fellow 
went  flat  as  a  dead  man,  but  he  must  have  pulled 
up  quick,  for  when  Neighbor,  rushing  in,  whirled 
Nicholson  into  the  street,  the  Reading  man  already 
had  his  feet,  and  a  corner  to  work  from.  Reed, 
the  trainmaster,  was  right  behind  the  big  master 
mechanic.  Rucker  was  up,  but  saw  he  was  out 
numbered. 

u  Hurt,  Mac  ?  "  asked  Reed,  running  toward  the 
Reading  man.  The  blow  had  certainly  dazed  him ; 
his  eyes  rolled  seasick  for  a  minute,  then  he  stared 
straight  ahead. 

"  Look  out,"  he  muttered,  pointing  over  Reed's 
shoulder  at  Kate  Mullenix,  "  she 's  going  to 
faint."  The  trainmaster  turned,  but  Kate  was 
over  before  her  brother  Sinkers  could  reach  her 
as  he  ran  in.  Rucker  moved  towards  the  door. 
As  he  passed  McTerza  he  sputtered  villanously, 
but  Neighbor's  huge  bulk  was  between  the  two 
men. 

"  Never  mind,"  retorted  McTerza ;  u  next  time 


120  Held  for  Orders 

I  get  you  I  '11  ram  a  billiard  c-c-c-cue  down  youi 
throat." 

It  was  the  first  intimation  our  fighting  men  had 
that  the  Reading  fellow  could  do  business,  and  the 
affair  caused  McTerza  to  be  inspected  with  some 
interest  from  behind  screens  and  cracker  boxes  as 
he  sauntered  up  and  down  the  street.  When  the 
boys  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  his 
treatment  in  the  short  order  house  he  seemed  in 
different  ;  but  the  indifference,  as  our  boys  were 
beginning  to  find  out,  covered  live  coals  ;  for  when 
he  was  pressed  he  threw  the  gauntlet  at  the  whole 
lodge  of  us,  by  saying  that  before  he  got  through 
he  would  close  the  short  order  house  up.  That 
threat  made  him  a  marked  man.  The  Reading 
men  were  hated  ;  McTerza  was  slated  for  the  very 
worst  of  it.  Everybody  on  both  sides  understood 
that  —  except  McTerza  himself.  He  never  under 
stood  anything,  for  that  matter,  till  it  was  on  him, 
and  he  dropped  back  into  his  indifference  and 
recklessness  almost  at  once.  He  even  tried  the 
short  order  house  again.  That  time  Mrs.  Mullenix 


The  Striker's  Story  121 

herself  was  in  the  saddle.  There  were  things  in 
life  which  even  McTerza  did  n't  hanker  after  tack 
ling  more  than  once,  and  one  was  a  second  interview 
with  Mrs.  Mullenix.  But  the  fellow  must  have 
made  an  impression  on  even  the  redoubtable  Mrs. 
Mary,  for  she  privately  asked  Neighbor,  as  one 
might  of  an  honorable  adversary,  for  peace'  sake 
to  keep  that  man  away  from  her  restaurant ;  so 
McTerza  was  banned.  He  took  his  revenge  by 
sauntering  in  and  out  of  Catling's,  until  Gatling 
himself  went  gray-headed  with  the  fear  that  another 
riot  would  be  brought  on  his  place. 

Oddly  enough,  McTerza  had  one  friend  in  the 
Mullenix  family.  On  the  strike  question,  like 
many  other  McCloud  families,  the  house  of  Mul 
lenix  was  divided  against  itself.  All  held  for  the 
engineers  except  the  youngest  member,  Sinkers. 
Sinkers  was  telegraph  messenger,  and  was  strictly 
a  company  man  in  spite  of  everything.  He  natu 
rally  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  new  men,  but  Sinkers 
never  took  the  slightest  interest  in  McTerza  till 
he  handled  Rucker ;  after  that  Sinkers  cultivated 


122  Held  for  Orders 

him.  Sinkers  would  listen  just  as  long  as  McTerza 
would  stutter,  and  they  became  fast  friends  long 
before  the  yard  riots. 

The  day  the  carload  of  detectives  was  imported 
the  fight  was  on.  Scattering  collisions  breaking 
here  and  there  into  open  fights  showed  the  feeling, 
but  it  was  n't  till  Little  Russia  went  out  that  things 
looked  rocky  for  the  company  property  at  McCloud. 
Little  Russia  had  become  a  pretty  big  Russia  at  the 
time  of  the  strike.  The  Russians,  planted  at  Ben- 
kleton  you  might  say  by  Shockley,  had  spread  up  and 
down  the  line  like  tumbleweeds,  and  their  first 
cousins,  the  Polacks,  worked  the  company  coal 
mines.  At  McCloud  they  were  as  hard  a  crowd 
after  dark  as  you  would  find  on  the  steppes.  The 
Polacks,  four  hundred  of  them,  struck  while  the 
engineers  were  out,  and  the  fat  went  into  the  fire 
with  a  flash. 

The  night  of  the  trouble  took  even  us  by  surprise, 
and  the  company  was  wholly  unprepared.  The 
engineers  in  the  worst  of  the  heat  were  accused  of 


The  Striker's  Story  123 

the  rioting,  but  we  had  no  more  to  do  with  it  than 
homesteaders.  Our  boys  are  Americans,  and  we 
don't  fight  with  torches  and  kerosene.  We  don't 
have  to  ;  they  're  not  our  weapons.  The  company 
imported  the  Polacks,  let  them  settle  their  own  ac 
counts  with  them,  said  our  fellows,  and  I  called  it 
right.  Admitting  that  some  of  our  Reds  got  out  to 
mix  in  it,  we  could  n't  in  sense  be  held  for  that. 

It  was  Neighbor,  the  craftiest  old  fox  on  the  staff 
of  the  division,  who  told  the  depot  people  in  the 
afternoon  that  something  was  coming,  and  thinking 
back  afterward  of  the  bunches  of  the  low-browed 
fellows  dotting  the  bench  and  the  bottoms  in  front 
of  their  dugouts,  lowering  at  the  guards  who  patrolled 
the  railroad  yards,  it  was  strange  no  one  else  saw  it. 
They  had  been  out  three  weeks,  and  after  no  end 
of  gabbling  turned  silent,  Men  that  talk  are  not 
so  dangerous;  it's  when  they  quit  talking. 

Neighbor  was  a  man  of  a  thousand  to  act  on  his 
apprehension.  All  the  afternoon  he  had  the  switch 
engines  shunting  cars  about  the  roundhouse ;  the 
minute  the  arc  lights  went  on  the  result  could  be 


124  Held  for  Orders 

seen.  The  old  man  had  long  lines  of  furniture 
vans,  box  cars,  gondolas,  and  dead  Pullmans  strung 
around  the  big  house  like  parapets.  Whateve.  any 
body  else  thought,  Neighbor  was  ready.  Even  old 
John  Boxer,  his  head  blacksmith,  who  operated  an 
amateur  battery  for  salutes  and  celebrations,  had  his 
gun  overhauled  :  the  roundhouse  was  looking  for 
trouble. 

It  was  barely  eight  o'clock  that  night  when  a 
group  of  us  on  Main  Street  saw  the  depot  lights  go 
out,  and  pretty  soon  telephone  messages  began 
coming  in  to  Catling's  from  the  company  plant  up 
the  river  for  the  sheriff;  the  Polacks  were  wrecking 
the  dynamos.  The  arc  lights  covering  the  yards 
were  on  a  different  circuit,  but  it  did  n't  take  the 
whiskered  fellows  long  to  find  that  out.  Half  an 
hour  later  the  city  plant  was  attacked  ;  no  one  was 
looking  for  trouble  there,  and  the  great  system  of 
arcs  lighting  the  yard  for  miles  died  like  fireflies. 
We  knew  then,  everybody  knew,  that  the  Polacks 
meant  business. 

Not  a  man  was  in  sight  when  the  blaze  sputtered 


The  Striker's  Story  1 25 

blue,  red,  and  black  out ;  but  in  five  minutes  a  dozen 
torches  were  moving  up  on  the  in-freight  house  like 
coyotes.  We  could  hear  the  crash  of  the  big  oak 
doors  clear  down  on  Main  Street.  There,  again, 
the  company  was  weak;  they  had  n't  a  picket  out 
at  either  of  the  freight  houses.  There  was  n't  so 
much  as  a  sneeze  till  they  beat  the  doors  in ;  then 
there  was  a  cry;  the  women  were  taking  a  hand, 
and  it  was  a  loot  with  a  big  L.  The  plunder  mad 
dened  them  like  brandy.  Neighbor,  who  feared 
not  the  Polacks  nor  the  devil,  made  a  sortie  with  a 
dozen  men  from  his  stockade,  for  that  was  what  the 
roundhouse  defenses  looked  like,  to  try  to  save  the 
building.  It  was  n't  in  men  to  do  it.  The  gutting 
was  done  and  the  kerosene  burning  yellow  before 
he  was  half-way  across,  and  the  mob,  running  then 
in  a  wavering  black  line  from  the  flames  that  licked 
the  high  windows,  were  making  for  the  storehouse.. 
The  fellows  were  certainly  up  to  everything  good, 
for  in  plundering  the  freight  house  first  they  gave 
their  women  the  chance  to  lay  in  supplies  for  months. 
Neighbor  saw  in  a  minute  there  was  nothing  left 


1 26  Held  for  Orders 

for  him  to  protect  at  the  east  end,  and  before  he 
could  cut  off  the  constantly  lengthening  line  of 
rioters,  they  were  between  him  and  the  long  store 
house.  It  must  have  made  the  old  man  weep  blood, 
and  it  was  there  that  the  first  shooting  occurred. 

A  squad  of  the  detectives  reenforcing  Neighbor's 
little  following,  ran  in  on  the  flank  of  the  rioters 
as  the  master  mechanic  caught  up  with  their  rear. 
They  wheeled,  on  his  command  to  disperse,  and 
met  it  with  a  cloud  of  stones  and  coupling  pins. 
The  detectives  opened  with  their  Winchesters,  and 
a  yell  went  up  that  took  me  back  to  the  Haymarket. 
Their  answer  was  the  torch  to  the  storehouse  and 
a  charge  on  the  imported  guards  that  shook  their 
front  like  a  whirlwind.  The  detectives  ran  for 
Neighbor's  breastworks,  with  the  miners  hot 
behind,  and  a  hail  of  deadly  missiles  on  their 
backs.  One  went  down  at  the  turn-table,  and  it 
did  n't  look  as  if  his  life  was  worth  a  piece  of  waste. 
But  the  fellow,  raising  on  one  arm,  began  picking 
off  the  Polacks  closest  with  a  revolver.  They  scat 
tered  like  turkeys,  and  he  staggered  across  the  table 


The  Striker's  Story  127 

before  they  could  damage  him  any  worse.  Half 
a  dozen  of  us  stood  in  the  cupola  of  the  fire-engine 
house,  with  the  thing  laid  below  like  a  panorama. 

Far  as  the  blazing  freight  house  lit  the  yards,  we 
could  see  the  rioters  swarming  in  from  the  bottoms. 
The  railroad  officials  gathered  up  stairs  in  the  pas 
senger  depot  waited  helpless  for  the  moment  when 
the  fury  of  the  mob  should  turn  on  the  unprotected 
building.  The  entire  records  of  the  division,  the 
despatchers'  offices,  the  headquarters  of  the  whole 
West  End  were  under  that  roof,  with  nothing  to 
stand  between  it  and  the  torches. 

Awkwardly  as  the  rioters  had  maneuvered,  they 
seemed  then  to  be  getting  into  better  shape  for  mis 
chief.  They  were  quicker  at  expedients,  and  two 
intensely  active  leaders  rose  out  of  the  crowds. 
Following  the  shouts  of  the  pair,  which  we  could 
just  hear,  a  great  body  of  the  strikers  dashed  up  the 
yard. 

"  By  the  Gods  !  "  cried  Andy  Cameron  at  my 
elbow,  "  they  're  going  for  the  oil-house  !  " 

Before  the  words  were  out  we  could  hear  the 


ia8  Held  for  Orders 

dull  stroke  of  the  picks  sinking  into  the  cleated 
doors.  Buckets  were  passed  in  and  out  from  the 
house  tanks.  Jacketed  cans  of  turpentine  and  var 
nish  were  hustled  down  the  line  to  men  drunk  with 
riot ;  in  a  moment  twenty  cars  were  ablaze.  To 
top  the  frenzy  they  fired  the  oil-house  itself.  De 
struction  crazed  the  entire  population  of  the 
bottoms.  The  burning  cars  threw  the  front  of  the 
big  brick  depot  up  into  the  sky.  As  the  reflec 
tion  struck  back  from  the  plate-glass  windows,  the 
mob  split  into  two  great  waves,  and  one  headed 
for  the  passenger  depot.  They  crossed  the  coal 
spurs  brandishing  torches  and  sledges  and  bars. 
We  could  see  them  plain  as  block  signals.  Every 
implement  that  ever  figured  in  a  yard  showed  in 
their  line,  but  their  leader,  a  youngish  fellow,  swung 
a  long,  tapering  stake.  As  the  foremost  Polack 
climbed  up  on  the  last  string  of  flats  that  separated 
them  from  the  depot,  the  storage  tanks  in  the  oil- 
house  took  fire.  The  roof  jumped  from  the  wall- 
plates  like  one  vast  trap-door,  and  the  liquid  yellow 
spurted  flaming  a  hundred  feet  up  into  the  black. 


The  Striker's  Story  129 

A  splitting  yell  greeted  the  burst,  and  the  Polacks, 
with  added  fury,  raced  towards  the  long  depot.  I 
made  out  then  the  man  with  the  club.  It  was 
Rucker. 

The  staff  of  the  superintendent,  and  the  force 
of  despatchers,  a  handful  of  men  all  told,  gathered 
at  the  upper  windows  and  opened  fire  with  revolvers. 
It  Ajras :  just  enough  to  infuriate  the  rioters.  And  it 
appeared  certain  that  the  house  would  be  burned 
under  the  defenders'  feet,  for  the  broad  platform 
was  bare  from  end  to  end.  Not  a  ghost  of  a  bar 
ricade,  not  a  truck,  not  a  shutter  stood  between 
the  depot  and  the  torch,  and  nobody  thought  of  a 
man  until  Cameron  with  the  quicker  eyes  cried  : 

"  For  God's  sake  !     There  's  McTerza  !  " 

Such  as  pay-day  there  he  was,  walking  down  the 
platform  towards  the  depot,  and  humping  alongside 
—  Sinkers. 

I  guess  everybody  in  both  camps  swore.     Like 

a  man  in  his  sleep  he  was  walking  right  in  the  teeth 

of  the  Polacks.     If  we  had  tried   ourselves  to  pit 

him  it  could  n't  have  been  done  cleaner.    His  friends, 

9 


130  Held  for  Orders 

for  McTerza  had  them,  must  have  shivered — but 
that  was  just  McTerza  ;  to  be  where  he  should  n't, 
when  he  should  n't.  Even  had  there  not  been  more 
pressing  matters,  nobody  could  have  figured  out 
where  the  fellow  had  come  from  with  his  convoy, 
or  where  he  was  going.  He  was  there ;  that  was 
all  —  he  was  there. 

The  despatchers  yelled  at  him  from  above.  The 
cry  echoed  back  short  from  a  hundred  Polack  throats, 
and  they  sent  a  splitter  ;  it  was  plain  they  were  mad 
for  blood.  Even  that  cry  did  n't  greatly  faze  the 
fellow,  but  in  the  clatter  of  it  all  he  caught  another 
cry  —  a  cry  sent  straight  to  McTerza's  ear,  and 
he  turned  at  the  voice  and  the  word  like  a  man 
stung.  Rucker,  leaping  ahead  and  brandishing  the 
truck-stake  at  the  hated  stutterer,  yelled,  "  The 
scab  !  " 

The  Reading  engineer  halted  like  a  baited  bear. 

Rucker's  cry  was  enough —  in  that  time  and  at 
that  place  it  was  enough.  McTerza  froze  to  the 
platform.  There  was  more  —  and  we  knew  it,  all 
of  us  —  more  between  those  two  men  than  scab 


The  Striker's  Story  1 3 1 

and  brotherhood,  strike  and  riot,  flood  or  fire  :  there 
was  a  woman.  We  knew  it  so  well  there  was 
hardly  a  flutter  anywhere,  I  take  it,  when  men  saw 
McTerza  stooping,  grasp  Sinkers,  shove  him 
towards  the  depot,  slip  like  a  snake  out  of  his  pea- 
jacket,  and  turn  to  front  the  whole  blooming  mob. 
There  wasn't  any  fluttering,  I  take  it — and  not 
very  much  breathing  ;  only  the  scab,  never  a  tre 
mendous  big  man,  swelled  bigger  in  the  eyes  then 
straining  his  way  than  any  man  in  McCloud  has 
ever  swelled  before  or  since. 

Mobs  are  queer.  A  minute  before  it  was  the 
depot,  now  it  was  the  scab  —  kill  him. 

The  scab  stood.  Rucker  stumbled  across  a  rail 
in  his  fury,  and  went  sprawling,  but  the  scab  stood. 
The  line  wavered  liketumbleweeds.  They  didn't 
understand  a  man  fronting  forty.  Then  Ben 
Nicholson  —  I  recognized  his  whiskers  —  began 
blazing  at  him  with  a  pistol.  Yet  the  scab  stood 
and  halted  the  Polack  line.  They  hesitated,  they 
stopped  to  yell;  but  the  scab  stood. 

"Stone  him!"  shouted  Ben  Nicholson.    McTerza 


132  Held  for  Orders 

backed  warily  across  the  platform.  The  Polacks 
wavered ;  the  instinct  of  danger  unsettled  them. 
Mobs  are  queer.  A  single  man  will  head  them 
quicker  than  a  hundred  guns.  There  is  nothing  so 
dangerous  as  one  man. 

McTerza  saw  the  inevitable,  the  steady  circling 
that  must  get  him  at  last,  and  as  the  missiles  flew 
at  him  from  a  score  of  miners  he  crouched  with 
the  rage  of  a  cornered  rat,  one  eye  always  on 
Rucker. 

"  Come  in,  you  coyote  ! "  yelled  McTerza 
tauntingly.  "  Come  in  !  "  he  cried,  catching  up  a 
coupling  pin  that  struck  him  and  hurling  it  wickedly 
at  his  nearest  assailant.  Rucker,  swinging  his 
club,  ran  straight  at  his  enemy. 

"  Kill  the  scab  ! "  he  cried  and  a  dozen  brist 
ling  savages,  taking  his  lead,  closed  on  the  Read 
ing  man  like  a  fan.  From  the  windows  above, 
the  railroad  men  popped  with  their  pistols ;  they 
might  as  well  have  thrown  fire-crackers.  McTerza, 
with  a  cattish  spring,  leaped  through  a  rain  of  brick 
bats  for  Rucker. 


The  Striker's  Story  133 

The  club  in  the  striker's  hands  came  around 
with  sweep  enough  to  drop  a  steer.  Quick  as  a 
sounder  key  McTerza's  head  bobbed,  and  he  went 
in  and  under  on  Rucker's  jaw  with  his  left  hand. 
The  man's  head  twisted  with  the  terrific  impact 
like  a  Chinese  doll's.  Down  he  went,  McTerza, 
hungry,  at  his  throat ;  and  on  top  of  McTerza  the 
Polacks,  with  knives  and  hatchets  and  with  Cossack 
barks,  and  they  closed  over  him  like  water  over  a 
stone. 

Nobody  ever  looked  to  see  him  pull  out,  yet  he 
wormed  his  way  through  them  corkscrew  fashion, 
while  they  hacked  at  one  another,  and  sprang 
out  behind  his  assailants  with  Rucker's  club.  In 
his  hands  it  cut  through  guards  and  arms  and  knives 
like  toothpicks.  Rucker  was  smothering  under  top 
pling  Polacks.  But  others  ran  in  like  rats.  They 
fought  McTerza  from  side  to  side  of  the  platform. 
They  charged  him  and  flanked  him  —  once  they 
surrounded  him  —  but  his  stanchion  swung  every 
way  at  once.  Swarm  as  they  would,  they  could 
not  get  a  knife  or  a  pick  into  him,  and  it  looked  as 


I  34  Held  for  Orders 

if  he  would  clear  the  whole  platform,  when  his 
dancing  eye  caught  a  rioter  at  the  baggage  room 
door  mercilessly  clubbing  poor  little  Sinkers.  The 
boy  lay  in  a  pitiful  heap  no  better  than  a  dying 
mouse.  McTerza,  cutting  his  way  through  the 
circle  about  him,  made  a  swath  straight  for  the  kid, 
and  before  the  brute  over  him  could  run  he  brought 
the  truck-stake  with  a  full-arm  sweep  flat  across 
his  back.  The  man's  spine  doubled  like  a  jack- 
knife,  and  he  sunk  wriggling.  McTerza  made  but 
the  one  pass  at  him  ;  he  never  got  up  again.  Catch 
ing  Sinkers  on  his  free  arm,  the  Reading  man  ran 
along  the  depot  front,  pulling  him  at  his  side  and 
pounding  at  the  doors.  But  every  door  was  barred, 
and  none  dared  open.  He  was  clean  outside  the 
breastworks,  and  as  he  trotted  warily  along,  dragging 
the  insensible  boy,  they  cursed  and  chased  and 
struck  him  like  a  hunted  dog. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  depot  stands  a  huge  ice- 
box.  McTerza,  dodging  in  the  hail  that  followed 
him,  wheeling  to  strike  with  a  single  arm  when 
the  savages  closed  too  thick,  reached  the  recess, 


The  Striker's  Story  135 

and  throwing  Sinkers  in  behind,  turned  at  bay  on 
his  enemies. 

With  his  clothes  torn  nearly  off,  his  shirt  stream 
ing  ribbons  from  his  arms,  daubed  with  dirt  and 
blood,  the  scab  held  the  recess  like  a  giant,  and 
beat  down  the  Polacks  till  the  platform  looked  a 
slaughter  pen.     While    his  club  still  swung,  old 
John   Boxer's    cannon   boomed    across   the   yard. 
Neighbor  had  run  it  out  between  his  parallels,  and 
turned   it  on  the  depot  mob.     It  was  the    noise 
more  than    the    execution    that    dismayed  them. 
McTerza's  fight  had  shaken   the   leaders,  and  as 
the  blacksmiths  dragged  their  gun  up  again,  shotted 
with  nothing  more  than  an  Indian  yell,  McTerza's 
assailants  gave  way.     In  that  instant  he  disappeared 
through  the  narrow  passage  at  his  back,  and  under 
the  shadow  behind  the  depot  made  his  way  along 
the  big  building  and  up  Main  Street  to  the  short 
(  order  house.     Almost    unobserved  he  got  to  the 
side  door,    when    Rucker's  crowd,  with    Rucker 
again  on  his  feet,  spied  him  dragging  Sinkers  inside. 
They  made  a  yell  and  a  dash,  but  McTerza  got 


i  36  Held  for  Orders 

the  boy  in  and  the  door  barred  before  they  could 
reach  it.  They  ran  to  the  front,  baffled.  The  house 
was  dark  and  the  curtains  drawn.  Their  clamor 
brought  Mrs.  Mullenix,  half  dead  with  fright,  to 
the  door.  She  recognized  Nicholson  and  Rucker> 
and  appealed  to  them. 

"  Pray  God,  do  you  want  to  mob  me,  Ben  Nich 
olson  ?  "  she  sobbed,  putting  her  head  out  fearfully. 

"  We  want  the  scab  that  sneaked  into  the  side 
door,  Mrs.  Mary  !  "  roared  Ben  Nicholson.  u  Fire 
him  out  here." 

"  Sure  there's  no  one  here  you  want." 

"  We  know  all  about  that,"  cried  Rucker  break 
ing  in.  "  We  want  the  scab."  He  pushed  her 
back  and  crowded  into  the  door  after  her. 

The  room  was  dark,  but  the  fright  was  too  great 
for  Mrs.  Mullenix,  and  she  cried  to  McTerza  to 
leave  her  house  for  the  love  of  God.  Some 
one  tore  down  the  curtains ;  the  glow  of  the 
burning  yards  lit  the  room,  and  out  of  the  gloom, 
behind  the  lunch  counter,  almost  at  her  elbow  —  a 
desperate  sight,  they  told  me  —  panting,  blood- 


The  Striker's  Story  i  37 

stained,  and  torn,  rose  McTerza.  His  fingers 
closed  over  the  grip  of  the  bread-knife  on  the 
shelf  beside  him. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?  "  he  cried,  leaning  over  his 
breastwork. 

<c  Leave  my  house  !  For  the  love  of  God,  leave 
it !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Mullenix,  wringing  her  hands. 
The  scab,  knife  in  hand,  leaped  across  the  counter. 
Nicholson  and  Rucker  bumped  into  each  other  at 
the  suddenness  of  it,  but  before  McTerza  could 
spring  again  there  was  a  cry  behind. 

"  He  shay  n't  leave  this  house  !  "  And  Kate 
Mullenix,  her  face  ablaze,  strode  forward.  "  He 
sha'  n't  leave  this  house ! "  she  cried  again,  turn 
ing  on  her  mother.  "  Leave  this  house,  after 
he  's  just  pulled  your  boy  from  under  their  cow 
ardly  clubs!  Leave  it  for  who  ?  He  sha' n't  go 
out.  Burn  it  over  our  heads  !  "  she  cried  passion 
ately,  wheeling  on  the  rioters.  "  When  he  goes 
we  '11  go  with  him.  It 's  you  that  want  him, 
Curtis  Rucker,  is  it  ?  Come,  get  him,  you  coward  ! 
There  he  stands.  Take  him  '  " 


138  Held  for  Orders 

Her  voice  rang  like  a  fire-bell.  Rucker,  burnt 
by  her  words,  would  have  thrown  himself  on 
McTerza,  but  Nicholson  held  him  back.  There 
never  would  have  been  but  one  issue  if  they  had 
met  then. 

u  Come  away  !  "  called  the  older  man  hoarsely. 
u  It 's  not  women  we  're  after.  She 's  an  engineer's 
wife,  Curt ;  this  is  her  shanty.  Come  away,  I  say," 
and  saying,  he  pushed  Rucker  and  their  coyote 
following  out  of  the  door  ahead  of  him.  Mrs. 
Mullenix  and  Kate  sprang  forward  to  lock  the 
door.  As  they  ran  back,  McTerza,  spent  with 
blood,  dropped  between  them.  So  far  as  I  can 
learn  that  is  where  the  courtship  began,  right  then 
and  there  —  and  as  McTerza  says,  all  along  of 
Sinkers,  for  Sinkers  was  always  Kate's  favorite 
brother,  as  he  is  now  McTerza's. 

Sinkers  had  a  time  pulling  through  after  the 
clubbing.  Polacks  hit  hard.  There  was  no  end 
of  trouble  before  he  came  out  of  it,  but  sinkers  are 
tough,  and  he  pulled  through,  only  to  think  more 
of  McTerza  than  of  the  whole  executive  staff. 


The  Striker's  Story  139 

At  least  that  is  the  beginning  of  the  courtship 
as  I  got  it.  There  was  never  any  more  trouble 
about  serving  the  new  men  at  the  short  order  house 
that  I  ever  heard  ;  and  after  the  rest  of  us  got 
back  to  work  we  ate  there  side  by  side  with 
them.  McTerza  got  his  coffee  out  of  the  hot 
tank,  too,  though  he  always  insisted  on  paying 
twenty-five  cents  a  cup  for  it,  even  after  he  mar 
ried  Kate  and  had  a  kind  of  an  interest  in  the 
business. 

It  was  not  until  then  that  he  made  good  his  early 
threat.  Sinkers  being  promoted  for  the  toughness 
of  his  skull,  thought  he  could  hold  up  one  end  of 
the  family  himself,  and  McTerza  expressed  confi 
dence  in  his  ability  to  take  care  of  the  other;  so, 
finally,  and  through  his  persuasions,  the  short  order 
house  was  closed  forever.  Its  coffee  to-day  is  like 
the  McCloud  riots,  only  a  stirring  memory. 

As  for  McTerza,  it  is  queer,  yet  he  never  stut 
tered  after  that  night,  not  even  at  the  marriage 
service  ;  he  claims  the  impediment  was  scared  clean 
out  of  him.  But  that  night  made  the  reputation 


140  Held  for  Orders 

of  McTerza  a  classic  among  the  good  men  of 
McCloud.  McCloud  has,  in  truth,  many  good 
men,  though  the  head  of  the  push  is  generally  con 
ceded  to  be  the  husband  of  royal  Kate  Mullenix  — 
Johnnie  McTerza. 


Held   for    Orders 


The  Despatcher's  Story 


THE  LAST   ORDER 


The  Despatcher's  Story 


THE   LAST   ORDER 

IN  order  to  meet  objection  on  the  score  of  the 
impossible,  and  to  anticipate  inquiry  as  to 
whether  "  The  Despatcher's  Story  "  is  true, 
it  may  be  well  to  state  frankly  at  the  outset  that  this 
tale,  in  its  inexplicable  psychological  features,  is  a 
transcript  from  the  queer  things  in  the  railroad  life. 
It  is  based  on  an  extraordinary  happening  that  fell 
within  the  experience  of  the  president  of  a  large 
Western  railway  system.  Whether  the  story,  sug 
gestive  from  any  point  of  view  of  mystery,  can  be 
regarded  as  a  demonstration  of  the  efficacy  of  prayer 
may  be  a  disputable  question.  In  passing,  how 
ever,  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  circumstance  on 


144  Held  for  Orders 

which  the  tale  is  based  was  so  regarded  by  the 
despatcher  himself,  and  by  those  familiar  with  the 
circumstance. 


A  HUNDRED  times  if  once  the  thing  had 
been,  on  appeals  for  betterment,  before 
the  board  of  directors.  It  was  the  one 
piece  of  track  on  the  Mountain  Division  that  train 
men  shook  their  heads  over  —  the  Peace  River 
stretch.  To  run  any  sort  of  a  line  through  that 
canon  would  take  the  breath  of  an  engineer.  Give 
him  all  the  money  he  could  ask  and  it  would  stag 
ger  Wetmore  himself.  Brodie  in  his  day  said  there 
was  nothing  worse  in  the  Andes,  and  Brodie,  before 
he  drifted  into  the  Rockies,  had  seen,  first  and  last, 
pretty  much  all  of  the  Chilian  work. 

But  our  men  had  the  job  to  do  with  one  half  the 
money  they  needed.  The  lines  to  run,  the  grades 
to  figure,  the  culverts  to  put  in,  the  fills  to  make, 
the  blasting  to  do,  the  tunnel  to  bore,  the  bridge  to 
build  —  in  a  limit;  that  was  the  curse  of  it  —  the 


The  Despatcher's  Story         145 

limit.  And  they  did  the  best  they  could.  But 
I  will  be  candid :  if  a  section  and  elevation  of 
Rosamond's  bower  and  a  section  and  elevatiori  of 
our  Peace  River  work  were  put  up  to  stand  for  a 
prize  at  a  civil  engineers'  cake-walk  the  decision 
would  go,  and  quick,  to  the  Peace  River  track. 
There  are  only  eight  miles  of  it  ;  but  our  men 
would  back  it  against  any  eighty  on  earth  for  whip 
ping  curves,  tough  grades,  villainous  approaches, 
and  railroad  tangle  generally. 

The  directors  always  have  promised  to  improve 
it ;  and  they  are  promising  yet.  Thanks  to  what 
Hailey  taught  them,  there's  a  good  bridge  there 
now  —  pneumatic  caissons  sunk  to  the  bed.  It's 
the  more  pity  they  have  n't  eliminated  the  dread 
main  line  curves  that  approach  it,  through  a  valley 
which  I  brief  as  a  canon  and  the  Mauvaises  Terres 
rolled  into  one  single  proposition. 

Yet,  we  do  lots  of  business  along  that  stretch. 
Our  engineers  thread  the  cuts  and  are  glad  to  get 
safely  through  them.  Our  roadmasters  keep  up  the 
elevations,  hoping  some  night  the  blooming  right 


10 


146  Held  for  Orders 

of  way  will  tumble  into  perdition.  Our  despatchers, 
studying  under  shaded  lamps,  think  of  it  with  their 
teeth  clinched  and  hope  there  never  will  be  any 
trouble  on  that  stretch.  Trouble  is  our  portion 
and  trouble  we  must  get ;  but  not  there.  Let  it 
come;  but  let  it  come  anywhere  except  on  the 
Peace. 

It  was  in  the  golden  days  of  the  battered  old 
Wickiup  that  the  story  opens ;  when  Blackburn  sat 
in  the  night  chair.  The  days  when  the  Old  Guard 
were  still  there  ;  before  Death  and  Fame  and  Cir 
cumstance  had  stolen  our  first  commanders  and  left 
only  us  little  fellows,  forgotten  by  every  better  fate, 
to  tell  their  greater  stories. 

Hailey  had  the  bridges  then,  and  Wetmore  the 
locating,  and  Neighbor  the  roundhouses,  and  Bucks 
the  superintendency,  and  Callahan,  so  be  claimed; 
the  work,  and  Blackburn  had  the  night  trick. 


The  Despatched  Story         147 


I 

WHEN  Blackburn  came  from  the  plains 
he  brought  a  record  clean  as  the  book 
of  life.  Four  years  on  a  station  key  ; 
then  eight  years  at  Omaha  despatching,  with  never 
a  blunder  or  a  break  to  the  eight  years.  But  it  was 
at  Omaha  that  Blackburn  lost  the  wife  whose  face 
he  carried  in  his  watch.  I  never  heard  the  story, 
only  some  rumor  of  how  young  she  was  and  how 
pretty,  and  how  he  buried  her  and  the  wee  baby 
together.  It  was  all  Blackburn  brought  to  the 
West  End  mountains,  his  record  and  the  little  face 
in  the  watch.  They  said  he  had  no  kith  or  km  on 
earth,  besides  the  wife  and  the  baby  back  on  the 
bluffs  of  the  Missouri ;  and  so  he  came  on  the 
night  trick  to  us. 

I  was  just  a  boy  around  the  Wickiup  then,  but 
I  remember  the  crowd ;  who  could  forget  them  ? 
They  were  jolly  good  fellows  ;  sometimes  there 
were  very  high  jinks.  I  don't  mean  anybody  drunk 


148  Held  for  Orders 

or  that  sort ;  but  good  tobacco  to  smoke  and  good 
songs  to  sing  and  good  stories  to  tell  — and  Lord  I 
how  they  could  tell  them.  And  when  the  pins 
slipped,  as  they  would,  and  things  went  wrong,  as 
they  will,  there  were  clear  heads  and  pretty  wits 
and  stout  hearts  to  put  things  right. 

Blackburn,  as  much  as  I  can  remember,  always 
enjoyed  it ;  but  in  a  different  way.  He  had  such 
times  a  manner  like  nobody  else's —  a  silent,  beam 
ing  manner.  When  Bucks  would  roll  a  great  white 
Pan-Handle  yarn  over  his  fresh  linen  shirt-front  and 
down  his  cool  clean  white  arms,  one  of  them  always 
bared  to  the  elbow — sanding  his  points  with  the  • 
ash  of  a  San  Francisco  cigar  —  and  Neighbor  would 
begin  to  heave  from  the  middle  up  like  a  hippopota 
mus,  and  Callahan  would  laugh  his  whiskers  full 
of  dew,  and  Hailey  would  yell  with  delight,  and  the 
slaves  in  the  next  room  would  double  up  on  the 
dead  at  the  story,  Blackburn  would  sit  with  his 
laugh  all  in  a  smile,  but  never  a  noise  or  a  word. 
He  enjoyed  it  all ;  not  a  doubt  of  that ;  only  it  was 
all  tempered,  I  reckon,  by  something  that  had  gone 


The  Despatcher's  Story  149 
before.  At  least,  that 's  the  way  it  now  strikes  me, 
and  I  watched  those  big  fellows  pretty  close  —  the 
fellows  who  were  to  turn,  while  I  was  growing  up 
among  them,  into  managers  and  presidents  and  mag 
nates  ;  and  some  of  them  from  every  day  catch-as- 
catch-can  men  with  the  common  alkali  flecking 
their  boots  into  dead  men  for  whom  marble  never 
rose  white  enough  or  high  enough. 

Blackburn  was  four  years  at  the  Wickiup  on  the 
night  trick ;  it  would  n't  have  seemed  natural  to 
see  him  there  in  daylight.  It  needed  the  yellow 
gloom  of  the  old  kerosene  lamp  in  the  room ;  the 
specked,  knotted,  warped,  smoky  pine  ceiling  los 
ing  itself  in  black  and  cobwebbed  corners ;  the 
smoldering  murk  of  the  soft-coal  fire  brooding  in 
the  shabby  old  salamander,  and,  outside  in  the  dark 
ness,  the  wind  screwing  down  the  gorge  and  rattling 
the  shrunken  casements,  to  raise  Blackburn  in  the 
despatcher's  chair.  Blackburn  and  the  lamp  and 
the  stove  and  the  ceiling  and  the  gloom  —  in  a  word, 
Blackburn  and  the  night  trick  —  they  went  together. 

Before  the  Short  line  was  opened  the  Number 


150  Held  for  Orders 

One  and  Number  Five  trains  caught  practically  all 
the  coast  passenger  business.  They  were  immensely 
heavy  trains ;  month  after  month  we  sent  out  two 
and  three  sections  of  them  each  way,  and  they  always 
ran  into  our  division  on  the  night  trick.  Blackburn 
handled  all  that  main  line  business  with  a  mileage 
of  eight  hundred  and  five,  besides  the  mountain 
branches,  say  four  hundred  more  ;  and  the  passen 
ger  connections  came  off  them,  mostly  at  night,  for 
One  and  Five. 

Now,  three  men  wrestle  with  Blackburn's  mile 
age  ;  but  that  was  before  they  found  out  that  de- 
spatchers,  although  something  tougher  than  steel,  do 
wear  out.  Moreover,  we  were  then  a  good  way 
from  civilization  and  extra  men.  If  a  despatcher 
took  sick  there  was  no  handy  way  of  filling  in ;  it 
was  just  double  up  and  do  the  best  you  could. 

One  lad  in  the  office  those  days  everybody 
loved  :  Fred  Norman.  He  was  off  the  Burling 
ton.  A  kid  of  a  fellow  who  looked  more  like 
a  choir  boy  than  a  train  despatcher.  But  he  was 
all  lightning  —  a  laughing,  restless,  artless  boy, 


The  Despatcher's  Story         151 

open  as  a  book  and  quick  as  a  current.  There  was 
a  better  reason  still,  though,  why  they  loved  Fred  : 
the  boy  had  consumption  ;  that 's  why  he  was  out 
in  the  mountains,  and  his  mother  in  Detroit  used 
to  write  Bucks  asking  about  him,  and  she  used  to 
send  us  ail  things  in  Fred's  box.  His  flesh  was  as 
white  and  as  pink  as  mountain  snow,  and  he  had 
brown  eyes;  he  was  a  good  boy,  and  I  called  him 
handsome.  I  reckon  they  all  did.  Fred  brought 
out  a  tennis  set  with  him,  the  first  we  ever  saw  in 
Medicine  Bend,  and  before  he  had  been  playing  an 
hour  he  had  Neighbor,  big  as  a  grizzly,  and  Calla- 
han,  with  a  pipe  in  one  hand  and  a  tennis  guide  in 
the  other,  chasing  all  over  the  yard  after  balls ;  and 
Hailey  trying  to  figure  forty  love,  while  Fred  taught 
Bucks  the  Lawford  drive.  I  don't  say  what  he  was 
to  me ;  only  that  he  taught  me  all  I  ever  knew  or 
ever  will  know  about  handling  trains  ;  and,  though 
I  was  carrying  messages  then,  and  he  was  signing 
orders,  we  were  really  like  kids  together. 

Fred  for  a  long  time  had  the  early  trick.      He 
came  on  at  four  in  the  morning  and  caught  most 


152  Held  for  Orders 

of  the  through  freights  that  got  away  from  the  River 
behind  the  passenger  trains.  There  was  no  use  try 
ing  to  move  them  in  the  night  trick.  Between  the 
stock  trains  eastbound  and  the  both-way  passenger 
trains,  if  a  westbound  freight  got  caught  in  the  moun 
tains  at  night  the  engine  might  as  well  be  standing 
in  the  house  saving  fuel  —  there  was  n't  time  to  get 
from  one  siding  to  another.  So  Fred  Norman  took 
the  freights  as  they  came  and  he  handled  them  like 
a  ringmaster.  When  Fred's  whip  cracked,  by  Joe ! 
a  train  had  to  dance  right  along,  grade  or  no  grade. 
Fred  gave  them  the  rights  and  they  had  the  rest  to 
do  —  or  business  to  do  with  the  superintendent  or 
with  Doubleday,  Neighbor's  assistant  in  the  motive 
power. 

There  was  only  one  tendency  in  Fred  Norman's 
despatching  that  anybody  could  criticise :  he  never 
seemed,  after  handling  trains  on  the  plains,  to  ap 
preciate  what  our  mountain  grades  really  meant,  and 
when  they  pushed  him  he  sent  his  trains  out  pretty 
close  together.  It  never  bothered  him  to  handle  a 
heavy  traffic ;  he  would  get  the  business  through  the 


The  Despatcher's  Story         153 

mountains  just  as  fast  as  they  could  put  it  at  the 
Division;  but  occasionally  there  were  some  hair- 
curling  experiences  among  the  freights  on  Norman's 
trick  trying  to  keep  off  each  other's  coat-tails.  One 
night  in  July  there  was  a  great  press  moving  eight 
or  nine  trains  of  Montana  grassers  over  the  main 
line  on  some  kind  of  a  time  contract  —  we  were 
giving  stockmen  the  earth  then.  Everybody  was 
prodding  the  Mountain  Division,  and  part  of  the 
stuff  came  in  late  on  Blackburn  and  part  of  it  early 
on  Fred,  who  was  almost  coughing  his  head  off  about 
that  time,  getting  up  at  3.30  every  morning.  Fred 
at  four  o'clock  took  the  steers  and  sent  them  train 
after  train  through  the  Rat  River  country  like  bul 
lets  out  of  a  Maxim  gun.  It  was  hot  work,  and 
before  he  had  sat  in  an  hour  there  was  a  stumble. 
The  engineer  of  a  big  ten-wheeler  pulling  twenty- 
five  cars  of  steers  had  been  pushing  hard  and,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  canon,  set  his  air  so  quick  he 
sprung  one  of  the  driver  shoes  and  the  main  rod  hit 
it.  The  great  steel  bar  doubled  up  like  a  man  with 
a  cram^,.  It  was  showing  daylight ;  they  made  a 


154  Held  for  Orders 

stop,  and,  quick  as  men  could  do  it,  flagged  both 
ways.  But  the  last  section  was  crowding  into  the 
canon  right  behind  ;  they  were  too  close  together, 
that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  The  hind  section  split 
into  the  standing  train  like  a  butcher  knife  into  a 
sandwich.  It  made  a  mean  wreck — and,  worse, 
it  made  a  lot  of  hard  feeling  at  the  Wickiup. 

When  the  investigation  came  it  was  pretty  near 
up  to  Fred  Norman  right  from  the  start,  and  he 
knew  it.  But  Blackburn,  who  shielded  him  when 
he  could,  just  as  all  the  despatchers  did,  because  he 
was  a  boy  —  and  a  sick  one  among  men  —  tried  to 
take  part  of  the  blame  himself.  He  could  afford  it, 
Blackburn  ;  his  shoulders  were  broad  and  he  had  n't 
so  much  as  a  fly-speck  on  his  book.  Bucks  looked 
pretty  grave  when  the  evidence  was  all  in,  and  around 
the  second  floor  they  guessed  that  meant  something 
for  Norman.  Fred  himself  could  n't  sleep  over  it, 
and  to  complicate  things  the  engineer  of  the  stalled 
train,  who  hated  Doubleday,  hinted  quietly  that  the 
trouble  came  in  the  first  place  from  Doubleday's 
new-fangled  idea  of  putting  the  driver  shoes  behind 


The  Despatcher's  Story         155 

instead  of  in  front  of  the  wheels.  Then  the  fat 
was  in  the  fire.  Fred  got  hold  of  it,  and,  boy-like 
—  sore  over  his  own  share  in  the  trouble  and  exas 
perated  by  something  Doubleday  was  reported  to 
have  said  about  him  over  at  the  house —  lighted  into 
Doubleday  about  the  engine  failure. 

Doubleday  was  right  in  his  device,  as  time  has 
proved ;  but  it  was  unheard  of  then  and  more 
over,  the  assistant  master  mechanic  sensitive  to 
criticism  at  any  time,  was  a  fearful  man  to  run 
against.  Sunday  morning  he  and  Norman  met  in 
the  trainmaster's  office.  They  went  at  each  other 
like  sparks,  and  when  Doubleday,  who  had  a  hard 
mouth,  began  cursing  Fred,  the  poor  little  de- 
spatcher,  rankling  with  the  trouble,  anyway  half 
sick,  went  all  to  pieces  and  flew  at  the  big  fellow 
like  a  sparrowhawk.  He  threw  a  wicked  left  into 
the  master  mechanic  before  Doubleday  could  lift  a 
guard.  But  Walter  Doubleday,  angry  as  he  was, 
could  n't  strike  Fred.  He  caught  up  both  the 
boy's  hands  and  pushed  him,  struggling  madly, 
back  against  the  wall  to  slap  his  face,  when  a 


156  Held  for  Orders 

froth  of  blood  stained  Fred's  lips  and  he  fell  faint 
ing;  just  at  that  minute  Blackburn  stepped  into 
the  room. 

It  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  time  —  they  weren't 
the  kind  of  men  —  to  ask  or  volunteer  explana 
tions.  Blackburn  was  on  Doubleday  in  a  wink, 
and  before  Walter  could  right  himself  the  night 
despatcher  had  thrown  him  headlong  across  the 
room.  As  the  operators  rushed  in,  Blackburn  and 
the  tall  master  mechanic  sprang  at  each  other  in  a 
silent  fury.  No  man  dare  say  where  it  might 
have  ended  had  not  Fred  Norman  staggered  be 
tween  them  with  his  hands  up  —  but  the  blood 
was  gushing  from  his  mouth. 

It  was  pretty  serious  business.  They  caught 
him  as  he  fell,  and  the  boy  lay  on  Blackburn's  arm 
limp  as  a  dead  wire :  nobody  thought  after  they 
saw  that  hemorrhage  that  he  would  ever  live  to 
have  another.  I  was  scared  sick,  and  I  never  saw 
a  man  so  cut  up  as  Doubleday.  Blackburn  was 
cool  in  a  second,  for  he  saw  quicker  than  others 
and  he  knew  there  was  danger  of  the  little  de- 


The  Despatcher's  Story         157 

spatcher's  dying  right  there  in  his  tracks.  Black 
burn  stood  over  him,  as  much  at  home  facing  death 
as  he  was  in  a  fight  or  in  a  despatcher's  chair. 
He  appeared  to  know  just  how  to  handle  the  boy 
to  check  the  gush,  and  to  know  just  where  the 
salt  was  and  how  to  feed  it,  and  he  had  Double- 
day  telephoning  for  Dr.  Carhart  and  me  running 
to  a  saloon  after  chopped  ice  in  a  jiffy.  When 
anybody  was  knocked  out,  Blackburn  was  as  regu 
lar  a  nurse  as  ever  you  saw;  even  switchmen,  when 
they  got  pinched,  kind  of  looked  to  Blackburn. 

That  day  the  minute  he  got  Fred  into  Carhart's 
hands  there  was  Fred's  trick  to  take  care  of,  and 
nobody,  of  course,  but  Blackburn  to  do  it.  He 
sat  in  and  picked  up  the  threads  and  held  them  till 
noon ;  then  Maxwell  relieved  him.  Doubleday 
was  waiting  outside  when  Blackburn  left  the 
chair.  I  saw  him  put  out  his  hand  to  the  night 
despatches  They  spoke  a  minute,  and  went  out 
and  up  Third  Street  toward  Fred  Norman's  room. 
It  was  a  gloomy  day  around  the  depot.  Every 
body  was  talking  about  the  trouble,  and  the  way  it 


158  Held  for  Orders 

had  begun  and  the  way  it  had  ended.  They 
talked  in  undertones,  little  groups  in  corners  and 
in  rooms  with  the  doors  shut.  There  wasn't 
much  of  that  in  our  day  there,  and  it  was  depress 
ing.  I  went  home  early  to  bed,  for  I  was  on 
nights.  But  the  wind  sung  so,  even  in  the  after 
noon,  that  I  couldn't  quiet  down  to  sleep. 


II 

WE  were  handling  trains  then  on  the  old 
single-order   system.     I   mention   this 
because   in   no   other  way  could   this 
particular  thing   have   happened ;   but    there 's   no 
especial  point  in  that,  since  other  particular  things 
do  happen  all  the  time,  single  order,  double  order, 
or  no  order  system. 

The  wind  had  dropped,  and  there  was  just  a 
drizzle  of  rain  falling  through  the  mountains  when 
I  got  down  to  the  depot  at  seven  o'clock  that 
Sunday  evening.  I  don't  know  how  much  sleep 
Blackburn  had  had  during  the  day,  but  he  had 


The  Despatched  Story        159 

been  at  Fred  Norman's  bed  most  of  the  afternoon 
with  Doubleday  and  Carhart,  so  he  could  n't  have 
had  much.  About  half-past  seven  Maxwell  sent 
me  over  there  with  a  note  and  his  storm-coat  for 
him  and  the  three  men  were  in  the  room  then. 
Boy-like,  I  hung  around  until  it  was  time  for 
Blackburn  to  take  his  trick,  and  then  he  and 
Doubleday  and  I  walked  over  to  the  Wickiup 
together. 

At  sundown  everything  was  shipshape.  There 
had  n't  been  an  engine  failure  in  the  district  for 
twenty-four  hours  and  every  hand-car  was  running 
smoothly.  Moreover,  there  were  no  extra  sec 
tions  marked  up  and  only  one  Special  on  the 
Division  card  —  a  theatrical  train  eastbound  with 
Henry  Irving  and  company  from  'Frisco  to  Chi 
cago.  The  Irving  Special  was  heavy,  as  it  always 
is;  that  night  there  were  five  baggage  cars,  a 
coach  and  two  sleepers.  I  am  particular  to  lay  all 
this  out  just  as  the  night  opened  when  Blackburn 
took  his  train  sheet,  because  sometimes  these 
things  happen  under  extraordinary  pressure  on  the 


160  Held  for  Orders 

line  and  sometimes  they  don't ;  sometimes  they 
happen  under  pressure  on  the  despatcher  himself. 
It  was  all  fixed,  too,  for  Blackburn  to  handle  not 
only  his  own  trick  but  the  first  two  hours  of  Fred's 
trick,  which  would  carry  till  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  At  six  Maxwell  was  to  double  into  a 
four-hour  dog-watch,  and  Callahan  was  to  sit  in 
till  noon. 

There  was  nothing  to  hold  the  big  fellows 
around  the  depot  that  night,  and  they  began  strag 
gling  home  through  the  rain  about  nine  o'clock. 
Before  ten,  Bucks  and  Callahan  had  left  the  office ; 
by  eleven,  Neighbor  had  got  away  from  the  round 
house  ;  Doubleday  had  gone  back  to  sit  with  Fred 
Norman. 

The  lights  in  the  yard  were  low  and  the  drizzle 
had  eased  into  a  mist;  it  was  a  nasty  night,  and 
yet  one  never  promised  better  for  quiet.  Before 
midnight  the  switchmen  were  snug  in  the  yard 
shanties ;  in  the  Wickiup  there  were  the  night 
ticket  agent  downstairs  and  the  night  baggageman. 
Upstairs  every  door  was  locked  and  every  room 


The  Despatched  Story         161 

was  dark,  except  the  despatched  office.  In  that, 
Blackburn  sat  at  his  key ;  nearby,  but  closer  to  the 
stove,  sat  the  night  caller  for  the  train  crews,  try 
ing  to  starch  his  hair  with  a  ten-cent  novel. 

The  westbound  Overland  passenger,  Number 
One,  was  due  to  leave  Ames  at  12.40  A.M., 
and  ordinarily  would  have  met  a  Special  like  the 
Irving  at  Rosebud,  which  is  a  good  bit  west  of 
the  river.  But  Number  One's  engine  had  been 
steaming  badly  all  the  way  from  McCloud,  and 
on  her  schedule,  which  was  crazy  fast  all  night, 
she  did  not  make  Ames  till  some  fifty  minutes 
late.  While  there  were  no  special  orders,  it 
was  understood  we  were  to  help  the  Irving  train 
as  much  as  possible  anyway.  Bucks  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  great  man  and  his  fellows 
on  the  westbound  run,  and  as  they  had  paid  us 
the  particular  compliment  of  a  return  trip,  we 
were  minded  to  give  them  the  best  of  it  —  even 
against  Number  One,  which  was  always  rather 
sacred  on  the  sheet.  This,  I  say,  was  pretty  gen 
erally  understood  ;  for  when  it  was  all  over  there 


162  Held  for  Orders 

was  no  criticism  whatever  on  Blackburn's  inten 
tion  of  making  a  meeting-point  for  the  two  trains, 
as  they  then  stood,  at  O'Fallon's  siding. 

Between  Ames  and  Rosebud,  twenty  miles 
apart,  there  are  two  sidings  —  O'Fallon's,  west  of 
the  river,  and  Salt  Rocks,  east.  There  was  no 
operator  at  either  place.  The  train  that  leaves 
Ames  westbound  is  in  the  open  for  twenty  miles 
with  only  schedule  rights  or  a  despatcher's  tissue 
between  her  and  the  worst  of  it.  At  one  o'clock 
that  morning  Blackburn  wired  an  order  to  Ames 
for  Number  One  to  hold  at  O'Fallon's  for  Special 
202.  A  minute  later  he  sent  an  order  for  Special 
202  to  run  to  O'Fallon's  regardless  of  Number 
One.  At  least,  he  thought  he  sent  such  an 
order ;  but  he  did  n't  —  he  made  a  mistake. 

When  he  had  fixed  the  meeting-point,  Black 
burn  rose  from  his  chair  and  sat  down  by  the 
stove.  I  lazily  watched  him,  till,  falling  into  a 
doze  as  I  eyed  him  drowsily,  he  began  to  loom 
up  in  his  chair  and  to  curl  and  twist  toward  the 
roof  like  a  signal  column;  then  the  front  legs  of 


The  Despatched  Story         163 

his  chair  struck  the  floor,  and  with  a  start  I  woke, 
just  as  he  stepped  hurriedly  back  to  his  table  and 
picked  up  the  order  book. 

The  first  suspicion  I  had  that  anything  was  wrong 
was  an  exclamation  from  Blackburn  as  he  stared 
at  the  book.  Putting  it  down  almost  at  once  and 
holding  the  page  open  with  his  left  hand,  he  plugged 
Callahan's  house  wire  and  began  drumming  his  call. 
Callahan's  "Aye,  aye,"  came  back  inside  of  a  min 
ute,  and  Blackburn  tapped  right  at  him :  "  Come 
down."  And  I  began  to  wonder  what  was  up. 

There  was  an  interval;  then  Callahan  asked, 
"What's  the  matter?" 

I  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  water-tank 
for  a  drink.  Blackburn  again  pressed  the  key,  and 
repeated  to  Callahan  precisely  the  words  he  had 
used  before  :  u  Come  down." 

His  face  was  drawn  into  the  very  shape  of  fear 
;and  his  eyes,  bent  hard  on  me,  were  looking 
through  me  and  through  the  shivering  window —  I 
know  it  now  —  and  through  the  storming  night, 
horror-set,  into  the  canon  of  the  Peace  River. 


164  Held  for  Orders 

The  sounder  broke  and  he  turned  back,  listened 
a  moment;  but  it  was  stray  stuff  about  time 
freight.  He  pushed  the  chair  from  behind  him, 
still  like  a  man  listening  —  listening;  then  with 
an  effort,  plain  even  to  me,  he  walked  across  the 
office,  pushed  open  the  door  of  Callahan's  private 
room,  and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  knob,  look 
ing  back  at  the  lamp.  It  was  as  if  he  still  seemed 
to  listen,  for  he  stood  undecided  a  moment ;  then 
he  stepped  into  the  dark  room  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  leaving  me  alone  and  dumb  with 
fear. 

The  mystery  lay,  I  knew,  in  the  order  book. 
Curiosity  gradually  got  the  better  of  my  fright, 
and  I  walked  from  the  cooler  over  to  the  counter 
to  get  courage,  and  shoved  the  train  register 
around  noisily.  I  crossed  to  the  despatchers'  table 
and  made  a  pretence  of  arranging  the  pads  and 
blanks.  The  train  order  book  was  lying  open 
where  he  had  left  it  under  the  lamp.  With  my 
eyes  bulging,  I  read  the  last  two  orders  copied 
in  it: 


The  Despatched  Story         165 

C.  and  E.     No.  One,  Ames. 

No.  One,  Eng.  871,  will  hold   at  O'Fallon's 

for  Special  202. 
C.  and  E.  Special  202,  Rosebud. 

Special  202,  Eng.  636,  will  run  to  Salt  Rocks 
regardless  of  No.  One. 

SALT  ROCKS  !  I  glared  at  the  words  and 
the  letters  of  the  words. 

I  re-read  the  first  order  and  read  again  the  sec 
ond.  O'Fallon's  for  Number  One.  That  was 
right.  O'Fallon's  it  should  be  for  the  Special  202, 
of  course,  to  meet  hen  But  it  was  n't :  it  was 
the  first  station  east  of  O'Fallon's  he  had  ordered 
the  Special  to  run  to.  It  was  a  lap  order.  My 
scalp  began  to  creep.  A  lap  order  for  the  Irving 
Special  and  the  Number  One  passenger,  and  it 
doomed  them  to  meet  head  on  somewhere  between 
O'Fallon's  and  the  Salt  Rocks,  in  the  Peace  River 
canon. 

My  mouth  went  sticking  dry.  The  sleet  out 
side  had  deepened  into  a  hail  that  beat  the  west 
glass  sharper  and  the  window  shook  again  in  the 


T  66  Held  for  Orders 

wind.  I  asked  myself,  afraid  to  look  around^ 
what  Blackburn  could  be  doing  in  Callahan's  room. 
The  horror  of  the  wreck  impending  through  his 
mistake  began  to  grow  on  me ;  I  know  what  I 
suffered  ;  I  ask  myself  now  what  he  suffered, 
inside,  alone,  in  the  dark. 

Oh,  you  who  lie  down  upon  the  rail  at  night  to 
sleep,  in  a  despatcher's  hand,  think  you,  ever,  in 
your  darkened  berths  of  the  cruel  responsibility  on 
the  man  who  in  the  watches  of  the  night  holds 
you  in  his  keeping  ? 

Others  may  blunder ;  others  may  forget ;  others 
may  fall  and  stand  again  :  not  the  despatcher ;  a 
single  mistake  damns  him.  When  he  falls  he 
falls  forever. 

Young  as  I  was,  I  realized  that  night  the 
meaning  of  the  career  to  which  my  little  ambi 
tion  urged  me.  The  soldier,  the  officer,  the 
general,  the  statesman,  the  president,  may  make 
mistakes,  do  make  mistakes,  that  cost  a  life  or 
cost  ten  thousand  lives.  They  redeem  them  and 
live  honored.  It  is  the  obscure  despatcher  under 


The  Despatched  Story         1 67 

the  lamp  who  for  a  single  lapse  pays  the  penalty 
of  eternal  disgrace.  I  felt  something  of  it  even 
then,  and  from  my  boy's  heart,  in  the  face  of  the 
error,  in  the  face  of  the  slaughter,  I  pitied  Black 
burn. 

Callahan's  room  door  opened  again  and  Black 
burn  came  out  of  the  dark.  I  had  left  the  table 
and  was  standing  in  front  of  the  stove.  He  looked 
at  me  almost  eagerly  ;  the  expression  of  his  face 
had  completely  changed.  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
such  a  change  in  so  few  minutes  on  any  man's 
face,  and,  like  all  the  rest,  it  alarmed  me.  It  was 
not  for  me  to  speak  if  I  had  been  able,  and  he 
did  not.  He  walked  straight  over  to  the  table, 
closed  the  order  book,  plugged  Callahan's  house 
wire  again,  and  began  calling  him.  The  assistant 
superintendent  answered,  and  Blackburn  sent  him 
just  these  words  : 

u  You  need  not  come  down." 

I  heard  Callahan  reply  with  a  question :  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

Blackburn  stood  calmly  over    the  key,  but  he 


1 68  Held  for  Orders 

made  no  answer.     Instead,  he  repeated  only  the 
words,  "  You  need  not  come  down." 

Callahan,  easily  excitable  always,  was  wrought  up. 
"  Blackburn,"  he  asked  over  the  wire,  impatiently, 
"  What  in  God's  name  is  the  matter  ? "  But 
Blackburn  only  pulled  the  plug  and  cut  him  out, 
and  sunk  into  the  chair  like  a  man  wearied. 

"Mr.  Blackburn,"  I  said,  my  heart  thumping 
like  an  injector,  u  Mr.  Blackburn  ?  "  He  glanced 
vacantly  around ;  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  see 
me.  "  Is  there  anything,"  I  faltered,  "  I  can  do  ?  " 

Even  if  the  words  meant  nothing,  the  offer 
must  have  touched  him.  "  No,  Jack,"  he  an 
swered  quietly  ;  "  there  is  n't."  With  the  words 
the  hall  door  opened  and  Bucks,  storm-beaten  in 
his  ulster,  threw  it  wide  and  stood  facing  us  both. 
The  wind  that  swept  in  behind  him  blew  out  the 
lamps  and  left  us  in  darkness. 

"  Jack,  will  you  light  up  ?  " 

It  was  Blackburn  who  spoke  to  me.  But  Bucks 
broke  in  instantly,  speaking  to  him  : 

"  Callahan  called  me  over  his  house  wire  a  few 


The  Despatcher's  Story         169 

minutes  ago,  Blackburn,  and  told  me  to  meet  him 
here  right  away.  Is  anything  wrong?"  he  asked, 
with  anxiety  restrained  in  his  tone. 

I  struck  a  match.  I  was  so  nervous  that  I  took 
hold  of  the  hot  chimney  of  the  counter  lamp 
and  dropped  it  smash  to  the  floor.  No  one  said 
a  word  and  that  made  me  worse.  I  struck  a 
second  match,  and  a  third,  and  with  a  fourth  got 
the  lamp  on  the  despatchers'  table  lighted  as  Black 
burn  answered  the  superintendent.  "  Something 
serious  has  happened,*'  he  replied  to  Bucks.  "  I 
sent  lap  orders  at  one  o'clock  for  Number  One 
and  the  Irving  Special." 

Bucks  stared  at  him. 

"  Instead  of  making  a  meeting-point  at  O'Fal- 
lon's  I  sent  One  an  order  to  run  to  OTallon's  and 
ordered  the  Special  to  run  to  Salt  Rocks  against 
One." 

"Why,  my  God!"  exclaimed  Bucks,  "that 
will  bring  them  together  in  —  the  Peace  canon  — 
Blackburn  !  —Blackburn  !— Blackburn  !"  he  cried, 
tearing  off  his  storm-coat.  He  walked  to  the  table, 


170  Held  for  Orders 

seized  the  order  book  and  steadied  himself  with 
one  hand  on  the  chair;  I  never  saw  him  like 
that.  But  it  looked  as  if  the  horror  long  averted, 
the  trouble  in  the  Peace  River  canon,  had  come. 
The  sleet  tore  at  the  old  depot  like  a  wolf,  and 
with  the  sash  shivering,  Bucks  turned  like  an  exe 
cutioner  on  his  subordinate. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  meet  it  ?  "  He  drew 
his  watch,  and  his  words  came  sharp  as  doom. 
"  Where  's  your  wreckers  ?  Where  's  your  relief? 
What  have  you  done  ?  What  are  you  doing  ? 
Nothing  ?  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  Will  you  kill 
two  trainloads  of  people  without  an  effort  to  do 
anything  ?  " 

His  voice  rang  absolute  terror  to  me ;  I  looked 
toward  Blackburn  perfectly  helpless. 

"  Bucks,  there  will  be  no  wreck,"  he  answered 
steadily. 

"  Be  no  wreck  !  "  thundered  Bucks,  towering  in 
the  dingy  room  dark  as  the  sweep  of  the  wind. 
"  Be  no  wreck?  Two  passenger  trains  meet  in 
hell  and  be  no  wreck  ?  Are  you  crazy  ?  " 


The  Despatcher's  Story         171 

The  despatcher's  hands  clutched  at  the  table. 
uNo,"  he  persisted  steadily,  UI  am  not  crazy, 
Bucks.  Don't  make  me  so.  I  tell  you  there  will 
not  be  a  wreck." 

Bucks,  uncertain  with  amazement,  stared  at 
him  again. 

"  Blackburn,  if  you  're  sane  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  Don't  stand  there  like  that.  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done  ?  "  The  superintend 
ent  advanced  toward  him  as  he  spoke ;  there  was 
a  trace  of  pity  in  his  words  that  seemed  to  open 
Blackburn's  pent  heart  more  than  all  the  bitter 
ness. 

"Bucks,"  he  struggled,  putting  out  a  hand  toward 
his  chief,  "  I  am  sure  of  what  I  say.  There  will 
be  no  wreck.  When  I  saw  what  I  had  done  — 
knew  it  was  too  late  to  undo  it  —  I  begged  God 
that  my  hands  might  not  be  stained  with  their 
blood."  Sweat  oozed  from  the  wretched  man's 
forehead.  Every  word  wrung  its  bead  of  agony. 
"  I  was  answered,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  strange 
confidence,  "there  will  be  no  wreck.  I  cannot 


172  Held  for  Orders 

see  what  will  happen.  I  do  not  know  what ;  but 
there  will  be  no  wreck,  believe  me  or  not  —  it 
is  so." 

His  steadfast  manner  staggered  the  superin 
tendent.  I  could  imagine  what  he  was  debating 
as  he  looked  at  Blackburn  —  wondering,  maybe, 
whether  the  man's  mind  was  gone.  Bucks  was 
staggered ;  he  looked  it,  and  as  he  collected  him 
self  to  speak  again  the  hall  door  opened  like  an 
uncanny  thing,  and  we  all  started  as  Callahan  burst 
in  on  us. 

«  What 's  so  ?  "  he  echoed.  "  What 's  up  here  ? 
What  did  it  mean,  Blackburn  ?  There 's  been 
trouble,  has  n't  there  ?  What  's  the  matter  with  you 
all  ?  Bucks  ?  Is  everybody  struck  dumb  ?  " 

Bucks  spoke.  u  There  's  a  lap  order  out  on 
One  and  the  theatrical  Special,  Callahan.  We 
don't  know  what 's  happened,"  said  Bucks  sullenly. 
"  Blackburn  here  has  gone  crazy  —  or  he  knows  — 
somehow  —  there  won't  be  any  wreck,"  added  the 
superintendent  slowly  and  bewilderedly.  "  It 's 
between  O'Fallon's  and  Salt  Rocks  somewhere. 


The  Despatcher's  Story        173 

Callahan,  take  the  key,"  he  cried  of  a  sudden. 
u  There  's  a  call  now.  Despatcher  !  Don't  speak  ; 
ask  no  questions.  Get  that  message,"  he  exclaimed 
sharply,  pointing  to  the  instrument.  "  It  may  be 
news." 

And  it  was  news :  news  from  Ames  Station  re 
porting  the  Irving  Special  in  at  1.52  A.M.  —  out 
at  1.54!  We  all  heard  it  together,  or  it  might 
not  have  been  believed.  The  Irving  Special,  east- 
bound,  safely  past  Number  One,  westbound,  on  a 
single  track  when  their  meeting  orders  had  lapped  ! 
Past  without  a  word  of  danger  or  of  accident,  or 
even  that  they  had  seen  Number  One  and  stopped 
in  time  to  avoid  a  collision  ?  Exactly  ;  not  a  word  ; 
nothing.  In  at  52;  out  at  54.  And  the  actors 
hard  asleep  in  the  berths  —  and  on  about  its  busi 
ness  the  Irving  Special  —  that's  what  we  got  from 
Ames. 

Callahan  looked  around.  "  Gentlemen,  what 
does  this  mean  ?  Somebody  here  is  insane.  I 
don't  know  whether  it's  me  or  you,  Blackburn. 
Are  you  horsing  me  ? "  he  exclaimed,  raising  his 


174  Held  for  Orders 

•!>ice  angrily.     "  If  you  are,  I  want  to  say  I  con- 
older  it  a  damned  shabby  joke." 

Bucks  put  up  a  hand  and  without  a  word  of 
comment  repeated  Blackburn's  story  just  as  the 
despatcher  had  told  it.  "  In  any  event  there  's 
nothing  to  do  now ;  it 's  on  us  or  we  're  past  it. 
Let  us  wait  for  Number  One  to  report." 

Callahan  pored  over  the  order  book.  u  May 
be,"  he  asked  after  a  while,  u  did  n't  you  send  the 
orders  right  and  copy  them  wrong  in  the  book, 
Blackburn  ?  " 

The  despatcher  shook  his  head.  "  They  went 
as  they  stand.  The  orders  lapped,  Callahan. 
Wait  till  we  hear  from  Number  One.  I  feel 
sure  she  is  safe.  Wait." 

Bucks  was  pacing  the  floor.  Callahan  stuck  silent 
to  the  key,  taking  what  little  work  came,  for  I  saw 
neither  of  the  chiefs  wanted  to  trust  Blackburn  at 
the  key.  He  sat,  looking,  for  the  most  part,  vacantly 
into  the  fire.  Callahan  meantime  had  the  orders 
repeated  back  from  Ames  and  Rosebud.  It  was 
as  Blackburn  had  said ;  they  did  lap ;  they  had  been 


The  Despatched  Story         175 

sent  just  as  the  order  book  showed.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  for  Rosebud  to  hear 
from  Number  One.  When  the  night  operator 
there  called  the  despatcher  again  it  brought  Black 
burn  out  of  his  gloom  like  a  thunderclap. 

"  Give  me  the  key  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  There 
is  Rosebud."  Callahan  pushed  back  and  Black 
burn,  dropping  into  the  chair,  took  the  message 
from  the  night  operator  at  Rosebud. 

"  Number  One,  in,  2.03  A.  M." 

Blackburn  answered  him,  and  strangely,  with  all 
the  easy  confidence  of  his  ordinary  sending.  He 
sat  and  took  and  sent  like  one  again  master  of  the 
situation. 

"Ask  Engineer  Sampson  to  come  to  the  wire," 
said  he  to  Rosebud.  Sampson,  not  Maje,  but  his 
brother  Arnold,  was  pulling  Number  One  that 
night. 

"  Engineer  Sampson  here,"  came  from  Rosebud 
presently. 

"  Ask  Sampson  where  he  met  Special  202 
to-night." 


176  Held  for  Ciders 

We  waited,  wrought  up,  for  in  that  reply  must 
come  the  answer  to  all  the  mystery.  There  was 
a  hitch  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire ;  then  Rosebud 
answered : 

u  Sampson  says  he  will  tell  you  all  about  it  in 
the  morning." 

"That  will  not  do,"  tapped  the  despatcher. 
"This  is  Blackburn.  Superintendent  Bucks  and 
Callahan  are  here.  They  want  the  facts.  Where 
did  you  meet  Special  202  ?  " 

There  was  another  wearing  delay.  When  the 
answer  came  it  was  slowly,  at  the  engineer's 
dictation. 

"  My  orders  were  to  hold  at  O'Fallon's  for 
Special  202,"  clicked  the  sounder,  repeating  the 
engineer's  halting  statement.  "  When  we  cleared 
Salt  Rocks  siding  and  got  down  among  the  Quak 
ers,  I  was  cutting  along  pretty  hard  to  make  the 
canon  when  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  a  headlight 
flash  between  the  buttes  across  the  river.  It 
startled  me,  for  I  knew  the  202  Special  could  not 
be  very  far  west  of  us.  Anyway,  I  made  a  quick 


The  Despatcher's  Story         177 

stop,  and  reversed  and  backed  tight  as  I  could  make 
it  for  Salt  Rocks  siding.  Before  we  had  got  a 
mile  I  saw  the  headlight  again,  and  I  knew  the  202 
was  against  our  order.  We  got  into  the  clear  just 
as  the  Special  went  by  humming.  Nobody  but  our 
train  crew  and  my  fireman  knows  anything  about 
this." 

The  three  men  in  front  of  me  made  no  comment 
as  they  looked  at  each  other.  How  was  it  possible 
for  one  train  to  have  seen  the  headlight  of  another 
among  the  buttes  of  the  Peace  River  country  ? 

It  was — possible.  Just  possible.  But  to  figure 
once  in  how  many  times  a  vista  would  have  opened 
for  a  single  second  so  one  engineer  could  see  the 
light  of  another  would  stagger  a  multiplying  machine. 
Chance  ?  Well,  yes,  perhaps.  But  there  were  no 
suggestions  of  that  nature  that  night  under  the  de- 
spatcher's  lamp  at  the  Wickiup,  with  the  storm  driv 
ing  down  the  pass  as  it  drove  that  night ;  and  yet 
at  Peace  River,  where  the  clouds  never  rested,  that 
night  was  clear.  Blackburn,  getting  up,  steadied 
himself  on  his  feet. 

12 


178  Held  for  Orders 

u  Go  in  there  and  lie  down,"  said  Callahan  to 
him.  "  You  're  used  up,  old  fellow,  I  can  see  that. 
I  '11  take  the  key.  Don't  say  a  word." 

"  Not  a  word,  Blackburn,"  put  in  Bucks,  rest 
ing  his  big  hand  on  the  despatched  shoulder. 
"  There  's  no  harm  done  ;  nobody  knows  it.  Bury 
the  thing  right  here  to-night.  You  're  broke  up. 
Go  in  there  and  lie  down." 

He  took  their  hands;  started  to  speak;  but  they 
pushed  him  into  Callahan's  room  ;  they  did  n't  want 
to  hear  anything. 

All  the  night  it  stormed  at  the  Wickiup.  In 
the  morning  the  Irving  Special,  flying  toward  Chi 
cago,  was  far  down  the  Platte.  Number  One  was 
steaming  west,  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  Rockies; 
Blackburn  lay  in  Callahan's  room.  It  was  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  sun  was  streaming  through  the 
east  windows  when  Fred  Norman  opened  the  office 
door.  Fred  could  do  those  things  even  when  he 
was  sickest.  Have  a  hemorrhage  one  day,  scare 
everybody  to  death,  and  go  back  to  his  trick  the 
next.  He  asked  right  away  for  Kit,  as  he  called 


The  Despatched  Story         179 

Blackburn,  and  when  they  pointed  to  Callahan's 
door  Fred  pushed  it  open  and  went  in.  A  cry 
brought  the  operators  to  him.  Blackburn  was 
stretched  on  his  knees  half  on  the  floor,  half  face 
downward  on  the  sofa.  His  head  had  fallen  be 
tween  his  arms,  which  were  stretched  above  it.  In 
his  hands,  clasped  tight,  they  found  his  watch  with 
the  picture  of  his  wife  and  his  baby.  Had  he  asked, 
when  he  first  went  into  that  room  that  night  —  when 
he  wrestled  like  Jacob  of  old  in  his  agony  of  prayer 
—  that  his  life  be  taken  if  only  their  lives,  the  lives 
of  those  in  his  keeping,  might  be  spared  ?  I  do  not 
know.  They  found  him  dead. 


Held   for   Orders 


The  Nightman's  Story 


BULLHEAD 


The  Nightman's  Story 


BULLHEAD 

HIS  full  name  was  James  Gillespie  Elaine 
Lyons  ;  but  his  real  name  was  Bullhead 
—  just  plain  Bullhead. 

When  he  began  passenger  braking  the  train 
master  put  him  on  with  Pat  Francis.  The  very 
first  trip  he  made,  a  man  in  the  smoking  car  asked 
him  where  the  drinking  water  was.  Bullhead, 
though  sufficiently  gaudy  in  his  new  uniform,  was 
not  prepared  for  any  question  that  might  be  thrown 
at  him.  He  pulled  out  his  book  of  rules,  which 
he  had  been  told  to  consult  in  case  of  doubt,  and 
after  some  study  referred  his  inquirer  to  the  fire- 
bucket  hanging  at  the  front  end  of  the  car.  The 


184  Held  for  Orders 

passenger  happened  to  be  a  foreigner  and  very 
thirsty.  He  climbed  up  on  the  Baker  heater,  ac 
cording  to  directions,  and  did  at  some  risk  get  hold 
of  the  bucket  —  but  it  was  empty. 

u  Iss  no  vater  hier,"  cried  the  second-class  man. 
Bullhead  sat  half  way  back  in  the  car,  still  study 
ing  the  rules.  He  looked  up  surprised  but  turn 
ing  around  pointed  with  confidence  to  the  firepail 
at  the  hind  end  of  the  smoker. 

"  Try  the  other  bucket,  Johnnie,"  he  said, 
calmly.  At  that  every  man  in  the  car  began  to 
choke ;  and  the  German,  thinking  the  new  brake- 
man  was  making  funny  of  him,  wanted  to  fight. 
Now  Bullhead  would  rather  fight  than  go  to  Sunday- 
school  any  day,  and  without  parley  he  engaged  the 
insulted  homesteader.  Pat  Francis  parted  them 
after  some  hard  words  on  his  part ;  and  Kenyon, 
the  trainmaster,  gave  Bullhead  three  months  to 
study  up  where  the  water  cooler  was  located  in 
Standard,  A  pattern,  smoking  cars.  Bullhead's  own 
mother,  who  did  Callahan's  washing,  refused  to 
believe  her  son  was  so  stupid  as  not  to  know ;  but 


The  Nightman's  Story          185 

Bullhead,  who  now  tells  the  story  himself,  claims 
he  did  not  know. 

When  he  got  back  to  work  he  tried  the  freight 
trains.  They  put  him  on  the  Number  Twenty- 
nine,  local,  and  one  day  they  were  drifting  into  the 
yard  at  Goose  River  Junction  when  there  came 
from  the  cab  a  sharp  call  for  brakes.  Instead  of 
climbing  out  and  grabbing  a  brakewheel  for  dear 
life,  Bullhead  looked  out  the  window  to  see  what 
the  excitement  was.  By  the  time  he  had  decided 
what  rule  covered  the  emergency  his  train  had 
driven  a  stray  flat  half  way  through  the  eating 
house  east  of  the  depot.  Kenyon,  after  hearing 
Bullhead's  own  candid  statement  of  fact,  coughed 
apologetically  and  said  three  years ;  whereupon 
Bullhead  resigned  permanently  from  the  train 
service  and  applied  for  a  job  in  the  roundhouse. 

But  the  roundhouse —  for  a  boy  like  Bullhead. 
It  would  hardly  do.  He  was  put  at  helping  Pete 
Beezer,  the  boiler  washer.  One  night  Pete  was 
snatching  his  customary  nap  in  the  pit  when  the 
hose  got  away  from  Bullhead  and  struck  his  boss. 


1 86  Held  for  Orders 

In  the  confusion,  Peter,  who  was  nearly  drowned, 
lost  a  set  of  teeth ;  that  was  sufficient  in  that  de 
partment  of  the  motive  power;  Bullhead  moved 
on,  suddenly.  Neighbor  thought  he  might  do  fora 
wiper.  After  the  boy  had  learned  something  about 
wiping  he  tried  one  day  to  back  an  engine  out  on 
the  turntable  just  to  see  whether  it  was  easy.  It 
was  ;  dead  easy  ;  but  the  turntable  happened  to  be 
arranged  wrong  for  the  experiment ;  and  Neighbor, 
before  calling  in  the  wrecking  gang,  took  occasion 
to  kick  Bullhead  out  of  the  roundhouse  bodily. 

Nevertheless,  Bullhead,  like  every  Medicine 
Bend  boy,  wanted  to  railroad.  Some  fellows,  can't 
be  shut  off.  He  was  offered  the  presidency  of  a 
Cincinnati  bank  by  a  private  detective  agency 
which  had  just  sent  up  the  active  head  of  the 
institution  for  ten  years ;  but  as  Bullhead  could 
not  arrange  transportation  east  of  the  river  he 
was  obliged  to  let  the  opportunity  pass. 

When  the  widow  Lyons  asked  Callahan  to  put 
Jamie  at  telegraphing  the  assistant  superintendent 
nearly  fell  off  his  chair.  Mrs.  Lyons,  however, 


The  Nightman's  Story         187 

was  in  earnest,  as  the  red-haired  man  soon  found 
by  the  way  his  shirts  were  starched.  Her  son, 
meantime,  had  gotten  hold  of  a  sounder,  and  was 
studying  telegraphy,  corresponding  at  the  same 
time  with  the  Cincinnati  detective  agency  for  the 
town  and  county  rights  to  all  "  hidden  and  undis 
covered  crime,"  on  the  Mountain  Division —  rights 
offered  at  the  very  reasonable  price  of  ten  dollars 
by  registered  mail,  bank  draft  or  express  money 
order ;  currency  at  sender's  risk.  The  only  obli 
gations  imposed  by  this  deal  were  secrecy  and  a 
German  silver  star ;  and  Bullhead,  after  holding 
his  trusting  mother  up  for  the  ten,  became  a  regu 
larly  installed  detective  with  proprietary  rights  to 
local  misdeeds.  Days  he  plied  his  sounder,  and 
nights  he  lay  awake  trying  to  mix  up  Pete  Beezer 
and  Neighbor  with  the  disappearance  of  various 
bunches  of  horses  from  the  Bar  M  ranch. 

About  the  same  time  he  became  interested  in 
dentistry  ;  not  that  there  is  any  obvious  connec 
tion  between  railroading  and  detective  work  and 
filling  teeth  —  but  his  thoughts  just  turned  that 


1 88  Held  for  Orders 

way  and  following  the  advice  of  a  local  dentist, 
who  did  n't  want  altogether  to  discourage  him, 
Bullhead  borrowed  a  pair  of  forceps  and  pulled  all 
the  teeth  out  of  a  circular  saw  to  get  his  arm  into 
practice.  Before  the  dentist  pronounced  him  pro 
ficient,  though,  his  mother  had  Callahan  reduced  to 
terms,  and  the  assistant  superintendent  put  Bull 
head  among  the  operators. 

That  was  a  great  day  for  Bullhead.  He  had  to 
take  the  worst  of  it,  of  course  ;  sweeping  the  office 
and  that ;  but  whatever  his  faults,  the  boy  did  as 
he  was  told.  Only  one  vicious  habit  clung  to  him 
—  he  had  a  passion  for  reading  the  rules.  In  spite 
of  this,  however,  he  steadily  mastered  the  taking, 
and,  as  for  sending,  he  could  do  that  before  he  got 
out  of  the  cuspidor  department.  Everybody  around 
the  Wickiup  bullied  him,  and  maybe  that  was  his 
salvation.  He  got  used  to  expecting  the  worst  of 
it,  and  nerved  himself  to  take  it,  which  in  rail 
roading  is  half  the  battle. 

A  few  months  after  he  became  competent  to 
handle  a  key  the  nightman  at  Goose  River  Junction 


The  Nightman's  Story         189 

went  wrong.  When  Callahan  told  Bullhead  he 
thought  about  giving  him  the  job,  the  boy  went  wild 
with  excitement,  and  in  a  burst  of  confidence 
showed  Callahan  his  star.  It  was  the  best  thing 
that  ever  happened,  for  the  assistant  head  of  the 
division  had  an  impulsive  way  of  swearing  the 
nonsense  out  of  a  boy's  head,  and  when  Bullhead 
confessed  to  being  a  detective  a  fiery  stream  was 
poured  on  him.  The  foolishness  couldn't  quite 
all  be  driven  out  in  one  round  ;  but  Jamie  Lyons 
went  to  Goose  River  fairly  well  informed  as  to 
how  much  of  a  fool  he  was. 

Goose  River  Junction  is  not  a  lively  place.  It 
has  been  claimed  that  even  the  buzzards  at  Goose 
River  Junction  play  solitaire.  But  apart  from  the 
utter  loneliness  it  was  hard  to  hold  operators  there 
on  account  of  Nellie  Cassidy.  A  man  rarely 
stayed  at  Goose  River  past  the  second  pay-check. 
When  he  got  money  enough  to  resign  he  resigned ; 
and  all  because  Nellie  Cassidy  despised  operators. 

The  lunch  counter  that  Matt  Cassidy,  Nellie's 
father,  ran  at  the  Junction  was  just  an  adjunct  for 


190  Held  for  Orders 

feeding  train  crews  and  the  few  miners  who  wan 
dered  down  from  the  Glencoe  spur.  Matt  himself 
took  the  night  turn,  but  days  it  was  Nellie  who 
heated  the  Goose  River  coffee  and  dispensed  the 
pie  —  contract  pie  made  at  Medicine  Bend,  and 
sent  by  local  freight  classified  as  ammunition, 
loaded  and  released,  O.  R. 

It  was  Nellie's  cruelty  that  made  the  frequent 
shifts  at  Goose  River.  Not  that  she  was  unim- 
pressible,  or  had  no  heroes.  She  had  plenty  of 
them  in  the  engine  and  the  train  service.  It  was 
the  smart-uniformed  young  conductors  and  the 
kerchiefed  juvenile  engineers  on  the  fast  runs  To 
whom  Nellie  paid  deference,  and  for  whom  she 
served  the  preferred  doughnuts. 

But  this  was  nothing  to  Bullhead.  He  had  his 
head  so  full  of  things  when  he  took  his  new  posi 
tion  that  he  failed  to  observe  Nellie's  contempt. 
He  was  just  passing  out  of  the  private  detective 
stage  ;  just  getting  over  dental  beginnings  ;  just 
rising  to  the  responsibility  of  the  key,  and  a  month 
devoted  to  his  immediate  work  and  the  study  of 


The  Nightman's  Story          191 

the  rules  passed  like  a  limited  train.  Previous  to 
the  coming  of  Bullhead,  no  Goose  River  man  had 
tried  study  of  the  rules  as  a  remedy  for  loneliness  ; 
it  proved  a  great  scheme;  but  it  aroused  the  un 
measured  contempt  of  Nellie  Cassidy.  She  scorned 
Bullhead  unspeakably,  and  her  only  uneasiness  was 
that  he  seemed  unconscious  of  it. 

However,  the  little  Goose  River  girl  had  no 
idea  of  letting  him  escape  that  way.  When  scorn 
became  clearly  useless  she  tried  cajolery  —  she 
smiled  on  Bullhead.  Not  till  then  did  he  give  up  ; 
her  smile  was  his  undoing.  It  was  so  absolutely 
novel  to  Bullhead  —  Bullhead,  who  had  never  got 
anything  but  kicks  and  curses  and  frowns.  Before 
Nellie's  smiles,  judiciously  administered,  Bullhead 
melted  like  the  sugar  she  began  to  sprinkle  in 
his  coffee.  That  was  what  she  wanted  ;  when 
he  was  fairly  dissolved,  Nellie  like  the  coffee 
went  gradually  cold.  Bullhead  became  miserable, 
and  to  her  life  at  Goose  River  was  once  more 
endurable. 

It   was  then  that  Bullhead  began  to  sit  up  all 


192  Held  for  Orders 

day,  after  working  all  night,  to  get  a  single  smile 
from  the  direction  of  the  pie  rack.  He  hung, 
utterly  miserable,  around  the  lunch  room  all  day, 
while  Nellie  made  impersonal  remarks  about  the 
colorless  life  of  a  mere  operator  as  compared  with 
life  in  the  cab  of  a  ten-wheeler.  She  admired  the 
engineer,  Nellie  —  was  there  ever  a  doughnut  girl 
who  did  n't?  And  when  One  or  Two  rose  smok 
ing  out  of  the  alkali  east  or  the  alkali  west,  and  the 
mogul  engine  checked  its  gray  string  of  sleepers  at 
the  Junction  platform,  and  Bat  Mullen  climbed 
down  to  oil  'round — as  he  always  did  —  there 
were  the  liveliest  kind  of  heels  behind  the  counter. 
Such  were  the  moments  when  Bullhead  sat  in 
the  lunch  room,  unnoticed,  somewhat  back  where 
the  flies  were  bad,  and  helped  himself  aimlessly 
to  the  sizzling  maple  syrup  —  Nellie  rustling  back 
and  forth  for  Engineer  Mullen,  who  ran  in  for  a 
quick  cup,  and  consulted,  after  each  swallow,  a 
dazzling  open-faced  gold  watch,  thin  as  a  double 
eagle;  for  Bat  at  twenty-one  was  pulling  the  fast 
trains  and  carried  the  best.  And  with  Bullhead 


The  Nightman's  Story  193 
feeding  on  flannel  cakes  and  despair,  and  Nellie 
Cassidy  looking  quite  her  smartest,  Mullen  would 
drink  his  coffee  in  an  impassive  rush,  never  even 
glancing  Bullhead's  way  —  absolutely  ignoring 
Bullhead.  What  was  he  but  a  nightman,  anyway  ? 
Then  Mullen  would  take  as  much  as  a  minute  of 
his  running  time  to  walk  forward  to  the  engine 
with  Miss  Cassidy,  and  stand  in  the  lee  of  the 
drivers  chatting  with  her,  while  Bullhead  went 
completely  frantic. 

It  was  being  ignored  in  that  way,  after  her  smiles 
had  once  been  his,  that  crushed  the  night  operator. 
It  filled  his  head  with  schemes  for  obtaining  recog 
nition  at  all  hazards.  He  began  by  quarrelling  vio 
lently  with  Nellie,  and  things  were  coming  to  a 
serious  pass  around  the  depot  when  the  Klondike 
business  struck  the  Mountain  Division.  It  came 
with  a  rush  and  when  they' began  running  through 
freight  extras  by  way  of  the  Goose  River  short 
line,  day  and  night,  the  Junction  station  caught  the 
thick  of  it.  It  was  something  new  altogether  for 
the  short  line  rails  and  the  short  line  operators,  and 
13 


194  Held  for  Orders 

Bullhead's  night  trick,  with  nothing  to  do  but  poke 
the  fire  and  pop  at  coyotes,  became  straightway  a 
busy  and  important  post.  The  added  work  kept 
him  jumping  from  sundown  till  dawn,  and  kept 
him  from  loafing  daytimes  around  the  lunch  counter 
and  ruining  himself  on  fermented  syrup. 

On  a  certain  night,  windier  than  all  the  Novem 
ber  nights  that  had  gone  before,  the  night  operator 
sat  alone  in  the  office  facing  a  resolve.  Goose 
River  had  become  intolerable.  Medicine  Bend  was 
not  to  be  thought  of,  for  Bullhead  now  had  a  sus 
picion,  due  to  Callahan,  that  he  was  a  good  deal  of 
a  chump,  and  he  wanted  to  get  away  from  the 
ridicule  that  had  always  and  everywhere  made  life 
a  burden.  There  appeared  to  Bullhead  nothing 
for  it  but  the  Klondike.  On  the  table  before  the 
moody  operator  lay  his  letter  of  resignation,  ad 
dressed  in  due  form  to  J.  S.  Bucks,  superintendent. 
Near  it,  under  the  lamp,  lay  a  well-thumbed  copy 
of  the  book  of  rules,  open  at  the  chapter  on  Resig 
nations,  with  subheads  on  — 

Resign,  who  should. 


The  Nightman's  Story          195 

Resign,  how  to. 

Resign,  when  to.     (See  also  Time.) 

The  fact  was  it  had  at  last  painfully  forced  itself 
on  Bullhead  that  he  was  not  fitted  for  the  railroad 
business.  Pat  Francis  had  unfeelingly  told  him  so. 
Callahan  had  told  him  so ;  Neighbor  had  told  him 
so  ;  Bucks  had  told  him  so.  On  that  point  the  lead 
ing  West  End  authorities  were  agreed.  Yet  in 
spite  of  these  discouragements  he  had  persisted  and 
at  last  made  a  show.  Who  was  it  now  that  had 
shaken  his  stubborn  conviction  ?  Bullhead  hardly 
dared  confess.  But  it  was  undoubtedly  one  who 
put  up  to  be  no  authority  whatever  on  Motive 
Power  or  Train  Service  or  Operating  —  it  was 
Matt  Cassidy's  girl. 

While  he  reread  his  formal  letter  and  compared 
on  spelling  with  his  pocket  Webster,  a  train  whis 
tled.  Bullhead  looked  at  the  clock:  11.40  P.  M. 
It  was  the  local  freight,  Thirty,  coming  in  from  the 
West,  working  back  to  Medicine.  From  the  East, 
Number  One  had  not  arrived  ;  she  was  six  hours 
late,  and  Bullhead  looked  out  at  his  light,  for  he 


196  Held  for  Orders 

had  orders  for  the  freight.  It  was  not  often  that 
such  a  thing  happened,  because  One  rarely  went 
off  schedule  badly  enough  to  throw  her  into  his  turn. 
He  had  his  orders  copied  and  O.K.'d,  and  waited 
only  to  deliver  them. 

It  was  fearfully  windy.  The  266  engine,  pull 
ing  Thirty  that  night,  wheezed  in  the  gale  like  a 
man  with  the  apoplexy.  She  had  a  new  fireman 
on,  who  was  burning  the  life  out  of  her,  and  as 
she  puffed  painfully  down  on  the  scrap  rails  of  the 
first  siding  and  took  the  Y,  her  overloaded  safety 
gasped  violently. 

When  the  conductor  of  the  Number  Thirty 
train  opened  the  station  door,  the  wind  followed 
him  like  a  catamount.  The  stove  puffed  open  with 
a  down  draft,  and  shot  the  room  full  of  stinging 
smoke.  The  lamp  blaze  flew  up  the  chimney  — 
out  —  and  left  the  nightman  and  the  conductor  in 
darkness.  The  trainman  with  a  swear  shoved-to 
the  door,  and  Bullhead,  the  patient,  turned  over  his 
letter  of  resignation  quick  in  the  dark,  felt  for  a 
match  and  relighted  his  lamp.  Swearing  again  at 


The  Nightman's  Story         197 

Bullhead,  the  freight  conductor  swaggered  over  to 
his  table,  felt  in  all  the  operator's  pockets  for  a 
cigar,  tumbled  all  the  papers  around,  and  once 
more,  on  general  principles,  swore. 

Bullhead  took  things  uncomplainingly,  but  he 
watched  close,  and  was  determined  to  fight  if  the 
brute  discovered  his  letter  of  resignation.  When 
the  trainman  could  think  of  no  further  indignities 
he  took  his  orders,  to  meet  Number  One  at  Sack- 
ley,  the  second  station  east  of  Goose  River.  After 
he  had  signed,  Bullhead  asked  him  about  the  depot 
fire  at  Bear  Dance  that  had  been  going  over  the 
wires  for  two  hours,  reminded  him  of  the  slow 
order  for  the  number  nine  culvert  and  as  the  rude 
visitor  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  held  his 
hand  over  the  lamp.  Then  he  sat  down  again 
and  turned  over  his  letter  of  resignation. 

To  make  it  binding  it  lacked  only  his  signature 
—  James  Gillespie  Blaine  Lyons  —  now,  himself, 
of  the  opinion  of  every  one  else  on  the  West  End : 
that  he  was  just  a  natural  born  blooming  fool. 
He  lifted  his  pen  to  sign  off  the  aspirations  of  a 


198  Held  for  Orders 

young  lifetime  when  the  sounder  began  to  snap 
and  sputter  his  call.  It  was  the  despatcher,  and 
he  asked  hurriedly  if  Number  Thirty  was  there. 

"  Number  Thirty  is  on  the  Y,"  answered  Bull 
head. 

Then  came  a  train  order.  "  Hold  Number 
Thirty  till  Number  One  arrives." 

Bullhead  repeated  the  order,  and  got  back  the 
O.  K.  He  grabbed  his  hat  and  hurried  out  of 
the  door  to  deliver  the  new  order  to  the  local 
freight  before  it  should  pull  out. 

To  reach  the  train  Bullhead  had  to  cross  the 
short  line  tracks.  The  wind  was  scouring  the 
flats,  and  as  he  tacked  up  the  platform  the  dust 
swept  dead  into  him.  At  the  switch  he  sprang 
across  the  rails,  thinking  of  nothing  but  reaching 
the  engine  cab  of  the  local  —  forgetting  about  the 
track  he  was  crossing.  Before  he  could  think  or 
see  or  jump,  a  through  freight  on  the  short  line, 
wild,  from  the  West,  storming  down  the  grade  be 
hind  him,  struck  Bullhead  as  a  grizzly  would  a 
gnat  —  hurled  him,  doubling,  fifty  feet  out  on  the 


The  Nightman's  Story         199 

spur  —  and  stormed  on  into  the  East  without  a 
quiver  out  of  the  ordinary.  One  fatality  followed 
another.  The  engineer  of  the  short  line  train  did 
not  see  the  man  he  had  hit,  and  with  the  night 
man  lying  unconscious  in  the  ditch,  the  local 
freight  pulled  out  for  Sackley. 

Bullhead  never  knew  just  how  long  he  lay 
under  the  stars.  When  his  head  began  to  whirl 
the  wind  was  blowing  cool  and  strong  on  him, 
and  the  alkali  dust  was  eddying  into  his  open 
mouth.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  seconds,  though 
it  seemed  hours,  to  pull  himself  together  and  to  put 
up  his  hand  unsteadily  to  feel  what  it  was  soaking 
warm  and  sticky  into  his  hair ;  then  to  realize 
that  he  had  been  struck  by  a  short  line  train; 
to  think  of  what  a  failure  he  had  lately  acknowl 
edged  himself  to  be  ;  and  of  what  it  was  he  was 
clutching  so  tightly  in  his  right  hand  —  the  holding 
order  for  Number  Thirty.  He  raised  his  reeling 
head;  there  was  a  drift  of  starlight  through 
the  dust  cloud,  but  no  train  in  sight;  Number 
Thirty  was  gone.  With  that  consciousness  came 


2oo  Held  for  Orders 

a  recollection  —  he  had  forgotten  to  put  out  his 
red  light. 

His  red  light  was  n't  out.  He  kept  repeating 
that  to  himself  to  put  the  picture  of  what  it  meant 
before  him.  He  had  started  to  deliver  an  order 
without  putting  out  his  light,  and  Number  Thirty 
was  gone  ;  against  Number  One  —  a  head  end  col 
lision  staring  the  freight  and  the  belated  passenger 
in  the  face.  Number  Thirty,  running  hard  on 
her  order  to  make  Sackley  for  the  meeting,  and 
One,  running  furiously,  as  she  always  ran — to 
night  worse  than  ever. 

He  lifted  his  head,  enraged  with  himself;  en 
raged.  He  thought  about  the  rules,  and  he  grew 
enraged.  Only  himself  he  blamed,  nobody  else  — 
studying  the  rules  for  a  lifetime  and  just  when  it 
would  mean  the  death  of  a  trainload  of  people 
forgetting  his  red  signal.  He  lifted  his  head; 
it  was  sick,  deadly  sick.  But  up  it  must  come, 
Thirty  gone,  and  it  wabbled,  swooning  sick  and 
groggy  as  he  stared  around  and  tried  to  locate  him 
self.  One  thing  he  could  see,  the  faint  outline  of 


The  Nightman's  Story         201 

the  station  and  his  lamp  blazing  smoky  in  the  win 
dow.  Bullhead  figured  a  second ;  then  he  began 
to  crawl.  If  he  could  reach  the  lamp  before  his 
head  went  off  again,  before  he  went  completely 
silly,  he  might  yet  save  himself  and  Number 
One. 

It  was  n't  in  him  to  crawl  till  he  thought  of  his 
own  mistake;  but  there  was  a  spur  in  the  sweep 
of  that  through  his  head.  His  brain,  he  knew, 
was  wabbling,  but  he  could  crawl ;  and  he  stuck 
fainting  to  that  one  idea,  and  crawled  for  the  light 
of  his  lamp. 

It  is  a  bare  hundred  feet  across  to  the  Y.  Bull 
head  taped  every  foot  of  the  hundred  with  blood. 
There  was  no  one  to  call  on  for  help ;  he  just 
stuck  to  the  crawl,  grinding  his  teeth  in  bitter  self- 
reproach.  They  traced  him,  next  morning  when 
he  was  past  the  telling  of  it,  and  his  struggle 
looked  the  track  of  a  wounded  bear.  Dragging 
along  one  crushed  leg  and  half  crazed  by  the  crack 
on  his  forehead,  Bullhead  climbed  to  the  platform, 
across,  and  dragged  himself  to  the  door.  He 


2O2  Held  for  Orders 

can  tell  yet  about  rolling  his  broken  leg  under 
him  and  raising  himself  to  grasp  the  thumb  latch. 
Not  until  he  tried  to  open  it  did  he  remember  it 
was  a  spring  lock  and  that  he  was  outside.  He 
felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  keys  —  but  his  keys 
were  gone. 

There  were  no  rules  to  consult  then.  No  way 
on  earth  of  getting  into  the  office  in  time  to  do 
anything;  to  drag  himself  to  the  lunch  room, 
twice  further  than  the  station,  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  But  there  was  a  way  to  reach  his  key  in 
spite  of  all  bad  things,  and  Bullhead  knew  the 
way.  He  struggled  fast  around  to  the  window. 
Raising  himself  with  a  frightful  twinge  on  one 
knee,  he  beat  at  the  glass  with  his  fist.  Clutch 
ing  the  sash,  he  drew  himself  up  with  a  hand, 
and  with  the  other  tore  away  the  muntin,  stuck 
his  head  and  shoulders  through  the  opening,  got 
his  hand  on  the  key,  and  called  the  first  station 
east,  Blaisdell,  with  the  19.  Life  and  death  that 
call  meant;  the  19,  the  despatcher's  call  —  hang 
ing  over  the  key,  stammering  the  19  over  the  wire, 


The  Nightman's  Story         203 

and  baptizing  the  call  in  his  own  blood  —  that  is 
the  way  Bullhead  learned  to  be  a  railroad  man. 

For  Blaisdell  got  him  and  his  warning,  and  had 
Number  One  on  the  siding  just  as  the  freight 
tore  around  the  west  curve,  headed  for  Sackley. 
While  it  was  all  going  on,  Bullhead  lay  on  the 
wind-swept  platform  at  Goose  River  with  a  hole 
in  his  head  that  would  have  killed  anybody  on  the 
West  End,  or,  for  that  matter  on  earth  except 
James  Gillespie  Blaine  Lyons. 

After  Number  Thirty  had  passed  so  impudently, 
Number  One  felt  her  way  rather  cautiously  to 
Goose  River,  because  the  despatchers  could  n't  get 
the  blamed  station.  They  decided,  of  course,  that 
Bullhead  was  asleep,  and  fixed  everything  at  the 
Wickiup  to  send  a  new  man  up  there  on  Three  in 
the  morning  and  fire  him  for  good. 

But  about  one  o'clock  Number  One  rolled,  bad- 
tempered,  into  Goose  River  Junction,  and  Bat 
Mullen,  stopping  his  train,  strode  angrily  to  the 
station.  It  was  dark  as  a  pocket  inside.  Bat 
smashed  in  the  door  with  his  heel,  and  the  train- 


204  Held  for  Orders 

men  swarmed  in  and  began  looking  with  their  lan 
terns  for  the  nightman.  The  stove  was  red-hot, 
but  he  was  not  asleep  in  the  arm-chair,  nor  nap 
ping  under  the  counter  on  the  supplies.  They 
turned  to  his  table  and  discovered  the  broken  win 
dow,  and  thought  of  a  hold-up.  They  saw  where 
the  nightman  had  spilled  something  that  looked 
like  ink  over  the  table,  over  the  order  book,  over 
the  clip,  and  there  was  a  hand  print  that  looked 
inky  on  an  open  letter  addressed  to  the  superinten 
dent —  and  a  little  pool  of  something  like  ink 
under  the  key. 

Somebody  said  suicide;  but  Bat  Mullen  sud 
denly  stuck  his  lamp  out  of  the  broken  window, 
put  his  head  through  after  it,  and  cried  out.  Set 
ting  his  lantern  down  on  the  platform,  he  crawled 
through  the  broken  sash  and  picked  up  Bullhead. 

Next  morning  it  was  all  over  the  West  End. 

"  And  Bullhead  !  "  cried  everybody.  "  That 's 
what  gets  me.  Who  M  have  thought  it  of  Bull- 
bead!" 

When  they  all  got  up  there  and  saw  what  Bull- 


The  Nightman's  Story         205 

head  had  done,  everybody  agreed  that  nobody  but 
Bullhead  could  have  done  it. 

The  pilot  bar  of  the  short  line  mogul,  in  swip 
ing  Bullhead  unmercifully,  had  really  made  a  rail 
road  man  of  him.  It  had  let  a  great  light  in  on 
the  situation.  Whereas  before  every  one  else  on 
the  line  had  been  to  blame  for  his  failures,  Bull 
head  now  saw  that  he  himself  had  been  to  blame, 
and  was  man  enough  to  stand  up  and  say  so. 
When  the  big  fellows,  Callahan  and  Kenyon  and 
Pat  Francis,  saw  his  trail  next  morning,  saw  the 
blood  smeared  over  the  table,  and  saw  Bullhead's 
letter  of  resignation  signed  in  his  own  blood  man 
ual,  and  heard  his  straight-out  story  days  after 
ward,  they  said  never  a  word. 

But  that  morning,  the  morning  after,  Callahan 
picked  up  the  letter  and  put  it  just  as  it  was  be 
tween  the  leaves  of  the  order  book  and  locked  both 
in  his  grip.  It  was  some  weeks  before  he  had  a 
talk  with  Bullhead,  and  he  spoke  then  only  a  few 
words,  because  the  nightman  fainted  before  he  got 
through.  Callahan  made  him  understand,  though, 


206  Held  for  Orders 

that  as  soon  as  he  was  able  he  could  have  any  key 
on  that  division  he  wanted  as  long  as  be  was  run 
ning  it  —  and  Callahan  is  running  that  division 
yet. 

It  all  came  easy  after  he  got  well.  Instead  of 
getting  the  worst  of  it  from  everybody,  Bullhead 
began  to  get  the  best  of  it,  even  from  pretty  Nellie 
Cassidy.  But  Nellie  had  missed  her  opening. 
She  tried  tenderness  while  the  boy  was  being 
nursed  at  the  Junction.  Bullhead  looked  grim 
and  far-off  through  his  bulging  bandages,  and 
asked  his  mother  to  put  the  sugar  in  his  coffee  for 
him  ;  Bullhead  was  getting  sense. 

Besides,  what  need  has  a  young  man  with  a 
heavy  crescent-shaped  scar  on  his  forehead,  that 
people  inquire  about  and  who  within  a  year  after 
the  Goose  River  affair  was  made  a  train  despatcher 
under  Barnes  Tracy  at  Medicine  Bend  —  what 
need  has  he  of  a  coquette's  smiles  ?  His  mother, 
who  has  honorably  retired  from  hard  work,  says  half 
the  girls  at  the  Bend  are  after  him,  and  his  mother 
ought  to  know,  for  she  keeps  house  for  him. 


The  Nightman's  Story         207 

Bullhead's  letter  of  resignation  with  the  print  of 
his  hand  on  it  hangs  framed  over  Callahan's  desk, 
and  is  shown  to  railroad  big  fellows  who  are  ac 
corded  the  courtesies  of  the  Wickiup.  But  when 
they  ask  Bullhead  about  it,  he  just  laughs  and  says 
some  railroad  men  have  to  have  sense  pounded  into 
them. 


Held   for   Orders 

* 

The  Master  Mechanic's  Story 


DELAROO 


>4 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story 


DELAROO 

YOU  TELL  IT.     I  can't  tell  it,"  growled 
Neighbor. 

u  Oh,  no.     No.     That 's  your  story, 
Neighbor." 

"  I  ain't  no  story-teller  —  " 
"Just  an  able-jawed   liar,"  suggested   Callahan 
through  a  benevolent  bluish  haze. 

"  Delaroo's  story  was  n't  any  lie,  though,"  mut 
tered  Neighbor.  "  But  a  fellow  would  think  it  was 
to  hear  it;  now  he  would,  for  a  fact,  wouldn't 
he  ? " 


212  Held  for  Orders 


I 

IF  you  want  him,  quick  and  short,  it  would 
be :  whiskers,  secret  societies,  statistics  and 
plug  tobacco  —  the  latter  mostly  worked  up. 
That  was  Maje  Sampson. 

Bluntly,  a  wind-bag ;  two  hundred  and  seventy 
pounds  of  atmosphere.  Up  on  benevolent  frater 
nities,  up  on  politics,  up  on  the  money  question,  up 
on  everything.  The  Seven  Financial  Conspiracies 
engaged  Maje  Sampson's  attention  pretty  contin 
ually,  and  had  for  him  a  practical  application  :  there 
were  never  less  than  seven  conspiracies  afoot  in 
Medicine  Bend  to  make  Maje  Sampson  pay  up. 

Pay  ?  Indeed,  he  did  pay.  He  was  always  pay 
ing.  It  was  not  a  question  of  paying.  Not  at  all. 
It  was  a  question  of  paying  'up,  which  is  different. 

The  children  —  they  were  brickbats.  Tow- 
headed,  putty-faced,  wash-eyed  youngsters  of  all 
sizes  and  conditions.  About  Maje  Sampson's 
children  there  was  but  one  distinguishing  character- 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     213 

istic,  they  were  all  boys,  nothing  but  boys,  and  they 
spread  all  over  town.  Was  there  a  baby  run  over  ? 
It  was  Maje  Sampson's.  Was  there  a  child  lost  ? 
Maje  Sampson's.  Was  there  a  violently  large- 
headed,  coarse-featured,  hangdog,  clattering  sort  of 
a  chap  anywhere  around  ?  In  the  street,  station, 
roundhouse,  yards,  stock  pens  ?  It  was  a  brick 
bat,  sure,  one  of  Maje  Sampson's  brickbat  boys. 

The  Sampsons  were  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and 
the  end  of  the  street  was  up  the  mountain.  Maje 
Sampson's  lot,  u  raired,"  as  Neighbor  put  it  —  stood 
on  its  hind  legs.  His  house  had  a  startling  tumble- 
over  aspect  as  you  approached  it.  The  back  end  of 
his  lot  ran  up  into  the  sheer,  but  he  marked  the 
line  sharply  by  a  kind  of  horizontal  fence,  because 
the  cliff  just  above  belonged  to  the  corporation  that 
owned  everything  else  on  earth  around  Medicine 
Bend. 

Maje  Sampson  did  not  propose  to  let  any  grasp 
ing  corporation  encroach  on  his  lines,  so  he  built, 
and  added  to  from  time  to  time,  a  cluster  of  things 
on  the  hind  end  of  his  lot  —  an  eruption  of  small 


214  Held  for  Orders 

buildings  like  pimples  on  a  boy's  nose,  running  down 
in  size  from  the  barn  to  the  last  drygoods  box  the 
boys  had  heaved  up  the  slope  for  a  dog  house.  To 
add  to  the  variety,  some  one  of  the  structures  was 
always  getting  away  in  the  wind,  and  if  anything 
smaller  than  a  hotel  was  seen  careening  across-lots 
in  a  Medicine  Bend  breeze  it  was  spotted  without 
further  investigation  as  Maje  Sampson's.  When 
the  gale  abated,  Joe  McBracken,  who  conducted 
the  local  dray  line,  was  pretty  sure  to  be  seen  with 
a  henhouse  or  a  woodshed,  or  something  likewise, 
loaded  on  his  trucks  headed  for  Maje  Sampson's. 
Once  the  whole  lean-to  of  the  house  blew  off,  but 
Joe  McBracken  stood  ready  for  any  emergency. 
He  met  the  maverick  addition  at  the  foot  of  the 
grade,  loaded  it  on  his  house-moving  truck,  hitched 
on  four  bronchos,  crawled  inside  the  structure,  and, 
getting  the  lines  through  the  front  window,  drove 
up  Main  Street  before  the  wind  had  gone  down. 
Joe  was  photographed  in  the  act,  and  afterward  used 
the  exhibit  in  getting  judgment  against  Maje  Samp 
son  for  his  bill- 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     2 1 5 

Now  a  man  like  Maje  would  n't  be  likely  to  have 
very  much  of  a  run  nor  very  much  of  an  engine. 
He  had  the  264 ;  an  old  pop  bottle  with  a  stack 
like  a  tepee  turned  upside  down.  For  a  run  he 
had  always  trains  Number  Twenty-nine  and  Thirty, 
the  local  freights,  with  an  accommodation  coach 
east  of  Anderson.  There  were  times  of  stress  fre 
quently  on  the  West  End,  times  when  everybody 
ran  first  in  first  out,  except  Maje  Sampson;  he 
always  ran  Twenty-nine  and  Thirty  west  to  Silver 
River  and  back.  A  pettifogging,  cheap,  jerk-water 
run  with  no  rights  to  speak  of,  not  even  against 
respectable  hand-cars.  The  only  things  Maje 
Sampson  did  not  have  to  dodge  were  tramps, 
blanket  Indians  and  telegraph  poles  ;  everything  else 
side-tracked  Twenty-nine  and  Thirty  and  Maje 
Sampson.  Almost  everybody  on  through  trains 
must  at  some  time  have  seen  Maje  Sampson 
puffing  on  a  siding  as  Moore  or  Mullen  shot  by  on 
Number  One  or  Number  Two.  Maje  was  so  big 
and  his  cab  so  little  that  when  he  got  his  head 
through  the  window  you  could  n't  see  very  much  of 


2i 6  Held  for  Orders 

the  cab  for  shoulders  and  whiskers  and  things. 
From  the  cab  window  he  looked  like  a  fourteen- 
year-old  boy  springing  out  of  a  ten-year-old  jacket. 
Three  things  only,  made  Maje  tolerable.  First, 
the  number  of  benevolent  orders  he  belonged  to  ; 
second,  Delaroo  ;  third,  Martie. 

Maje  Sampson  was  a  joiner  and  a  sitter  up.  He 
would  join  anything  on  the  West  End  that  had 
a  ritual,  a  grip  and  a  password,  and  he  would  sit  up 
night  after  night  with  anybody  that  had  a  broken 
leg  or  a  fever  :  and  if  nothing  better  offered,  Maje, 
rather  than  go  to  bed,  would  tackle  a  man  with  the 
stomachache.  This  kind  of  took  the  cuss  offj  but 
he  was  that  peculiar  he  would  sit  up  all  night  with 
a  sick  man  and  next  day  make  everybody  sick  talking 
the  money  question  —  at  least  everybody  but 
Delaroo.  If  Delaroo  was  bored  he  never  showed 
it.  As  long  as  Maje  would  talk  Delaroo  would 
listen.  That  single  word  was  in  fact  the  key  to 
Delaroo  :  Delaroo  was  a  listener ;  for  that  reason 
nobody  knew  much  about  him. 

He  was  n't  a  railroad   man    by  birth,  but  by 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     217 

adoption.  Delaroo  came  from  the  mountains  :  he 
was  just  a  plain  mountain  man.  Some  said  his 
father  was  a  trapper ;  if  so,  it  explained  everything 
—  the  quiet,  the  head  bent  inquiringly  forward,  the 
modest  unobtrusiveness  of  a  man  deaf.  Of  a  size 
and  shape  nothing  remarkable,  Delaroo  —  but  a 
great  listener,  for  though  he  looked  like  a  deaf 
man  he  heard  like  a  despatcher,  and  saw  mar 
vellously  from  out  the  ends  of  his  silent  eyes. 
Delaroo  for  all  the  world  was  a  trapper. 

He  came  into  the  service  as  a  roundhouse 
sweeper ;  then  Neighbor,  after  a  long  time,  put 
him  at  wiping.  Delaroo  said  nothing  but  wiped 
for  years  and  years,  and  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
come  liked,  when,  instead,  he  became  one  morning 
pitted  with  umbilical  vesicles,  and  the  doctors,  with 
Delaroo's  brevity,  said  smallpox.  The  boarding 
house  keeper  threw  him  out  bodily  and  at  once. 
Having  no  better  place  to  go,  Delaroo  wandered  into 
Steve  Boyer's  saloon,  where  he  was  generally  wel 
come.  Steve,  however,  pointed  a  hospitable  gun  at 
him  and  suggested  his  getting  away  immediately 


2i 8  Held  for  Orders 

from  the  front  end  of  it.  Delaroo  went  from  there 
to  the  roundhouse  with  his  umbilicals,  and  asked 
Neighbor  what  a  man  with  the  smallpox  ought  to 
do  with  it.  Neighbor  would  n't  run,  not  even 
from  the  smallpox  —  but  he  told  Delaroo  what  it 
meant  to  get  the  smallpox  started  in  the  round 
house,  and  Delaroo  wandered  quietly  away  from 
the  depot  grounds,  a  pretty  sick  man  then,  stag 
gered  up  the  yards,  and  crawled  stupid  into  a  box 
car  to  die  without  embarrassing  anybody. 

By  some  hook  or  crook,  nobody  to  this  day 
knows  how,  that  car  was  switched  on  to  Maje 
Sampson's  train  when  it  was  made  up  that  day  for 
the  West.  Maybe  it  was  done  as  a  trick  to  scare 
the  wind-bag  engineer.  If  so,  the  idea  was  suc 
cessful.  When  the  hind-end  brakeman  at  the 
second  stop  came  forward  and  reported  a  tramp 
with  the  smallpox  in  the  empty  box  car,  Maje  was 
angry.  But  his  curiosity  gradually  got  the  upper 
hand.  This  man  might  be,  by  some  distant  chance, 
he  reflected,  a  P.  Q.  W.  of  A.,  or  a  frater,  or  a 
fellow,  or  a  knight  or  something  like  —  and  when 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     2 1 9 

they  stopped  again  to  throw  off  crackers  and  beer 
and  catsup,  Maje  went  back  and  entered  the  in 
fected  car  like  a  lion-tamer  to  try  lodge  signals  and 
things  on  him.  Maje  advanced  and  gave  the  coun 
tersign.  It  was  not  cordially  received.  He  tried 
another  and  another  —  and  another  ;  his  passes  were 
lost  in  the  air.  The  smallpox  man  appeared  totally 
unable  to  come  back  at  Maje  with  anything.  He 
was  not  only  delirious,  but  by  this  time  so  fright 
fully  broken  out  that  Maje  could  n't  have  touched 
a  sound  spot  with  a  Masonic  signal  of  distress. 
Finally  the  venturesome  engineer  walked  closer  into 
the  dark  corner  where  the  sick  man  lay  —  and  by 
Heaven !  it  was  the  Indian  wiper,  Delaroo. 

When  Maje  Sampson  got  back  into  the  cab  he 
could  not  speak  —  at  least  not  for  publication. 
He  was  tearing  mad  and  sputtered  like  a  safety. 
He  gathered  up  his  cushion  and  a  water  bottle  and 
a  bottle  that  would  explode  if  water  touched  it, 
and  crawled  with  his  plunder  into  the  box  car. 
He  straightened  Delaroo  up  and  out  and  gave  him 
a  drink  and  by  way  of  sanitary  precaution  took 


220  Held  for  Orders 

one  personally,  for  he  himself  had  never  had  the 
smallpox  —  but  once.  When  he  had  done  this 
little  for  Delaroo  he  finished  his  run  and  came 
back  to  the  Bend  hauling  his  pest-house  box  car. 
The  fireman  quit  the  cab  immediately  after  Maje 
exposed  himself;  the  conductor  communicated  with 
him  only  by  signals.  The  Anderson  operator 
wired  ahead  that  Maje  Sampson  was  bringing  back 
a  man  with  smallpox  on  Thirty,  and  when  Maje, 
bulging  out  of  the  264  cab,  pulled  into  the  division 
yard  nobody  would  come  within  a  mile  of  him.  He 
set  out  the  box  car  below  the  stock  pens,  cross- 
lots  from  his  house  up  on  the  hill,  and,  not  being 
able  to  get  advice  from  anybody  else,  went  home 
to  consult  Martie. 

Though  there  were  a  great  many  women  in 
Medicine  Bend,  Maje  Sampson  looked  to  but  one, 
Martie,  the  little  washed-out  woman  up  at  Samp 
son's  —  wife,  mother,  nurse,  cook,  slave —  Martie. 

No  particular  color  hair ;  no  particular  color 
eyes;  no  particular  color  gown;  no  particular  cut 
to  it.  A  plain  bit  of  a  woman,  mother  of  six  boys, 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     221 

large  and  small,  and  wife  of  a  great  big  wind-bag 
engineer,  big  as  three  of  her  by  actual  measure 
ment.  By  the  time  Maje  had  taken  counsel  and 
walked  down  town  prominent  business  men  were 
fending  off  his  approach  with  shotguns.  The  city 
marshal  from  behind  a  bomb-proof  asked  what  he 
was  going  to  do  with  his  patient,  and  Maje  re 
torted  he  was  going  to  take  him  home.  He  was  n't 
a  M.  R.  W.  of  T.  nor  a  P.  S.  G.  of  W.  E.,  but 
he  was  a  roundhouse  man,  and  between  Maje  and 
a  railroad  man,  a  wiper  even,  there  was  a  bond 
stronger  than  grip  or  password  or  jolly  business  of 
any  kind.  The  other  things  Maje,  without  real 
izing  it,  merely  played  at ;  but  as  to  the  railroad 
lay  —  if  a  railroad  man  was  the  right  sort  he  could 
borrow  anything  the  big  fellow  had,  money,  plug 
tobacco,  pipe,  water  bottle,  strong  bottle,  it  made 
no  odds  what.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  Maje 
would  n't  hesitate  to  borrow  any  or  all  of  these 
things  in  return  -,  the  railroad  man  who  got  ahead 
of  Maje  Sampson  in  this  respect  had  claims  to  be 
considered  a  past  grand  in  the  business. 


222  Held  for  Orders 

The   doughty  engineer  lifted   and  dragged   and 
hauled  Delaroo  home  with  him.     If  there  was  no 
hospital,  Martie  had  said,  no  pest  house,  no  nothing, 
just  bring  him  home.     They  had  all  had  the  small 
pox   up  at  Sampson's  except   the   baby,  and   the 
doctor  had  said  lately  the  baby  appeared   to    need 
something.      They    had    really    everything  up   at 
Sampson's   sooner  or    later :    measles,  diphtheria, 
croup,  everything  on  earth   except   money.     And 
Martie  Sampson,  with  the  washing  and  mending 
and   scrubbing   and    cooking,    nursed   the    outcast 
wiper  through  his  smallpox.     The  baby  took  it,  of 
course,  and  Martie  nursed  the   baby  through  and 
went  on  just  the  same  as  before  —  washing,  mend 
ing,   cooking,  scrubbing.        Delaroo  when  he  got 
well  went  to  firing ;  Neighbor  offered  the  job  as  a 
kind  of  consolation  prize  j  and  he  went  to    firing 
on  the  264  for  Maje  Sampson. 

It  was  then  that  Maje  took  Delaroo  fairly  in 
hand  and  showed  him  the  unspeakable  folly  of 
trying  to  get  through  the  world  without  the  com 
radeship  and  benefits  of  the  B.  S.  L.'s  of  U.,  an<J 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story      223 

the  fraters  of  the  order  of  the  double-barrelled  star 
of  MacDuff.  Delaroo  caught  a  good  deal  of  it  on 
the  sidings,  where  they  lay  most  of  their  time  dodg 
ing  first-class  trains ;  and  evenings  when  they  got 
in  from  their  runs  Delaroo,  having  nowhere  else  to 
go,  used  to  wander,  after  supper,  up  to  Sampson's. 
At  Sampson's  he  would  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  lamp 
and  smoke  while  Maje,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  held 
forth  on  the  benevolent  orders,  and  one  boy  crawled 
through  the  bowels  of  the  organ  and  another 
pulled  off  the  tablecloth  —  Delaroo  always  saving 
the  lamp  —  and  a  third  harassed  the  dog,  and  a 
fourth  stuck  pins  in  a  fifth  —  and  Martie,  sitting 
on  the  dim  side  of  the  shade,  so  the  operation 
would  not  appear  too  glaring,  mended  at  Maje's 
mammoth  trousers. 

Delaroo  would  sit  and  listen  to  Maje  and  watch 
the  heave  of  the  organ  ^  with  the  boy,  and  the 
current  of  the  tablecloth  with  the  lamp,  and  the 
quarter  in  which  the  dog  was  chewing  the  baby, 
and  watch  Martie's  perpetual-motion  fingers  for  a 
whole  evening,  and  go  back  to  the  boarding-house 


224  Held  for  Orders 

without  passing  a  word  with  anybody  on  earth,  he 

was  that  silent. 

In  this  way  the  big,  bluffing  engineer  gradually 
worked  Delaroo  into  all  the  secret  benevolent 
orders  in  Medicine  Bend  —  that  meant  pretty  much 
every  one  on  earth.  There  arose  always,  however, 
in  connection  with  the  initiations  of  Delaroo  one 
hitch  :  he  never  seemed  quite  to  know  whom  he 
wanted  to  leave  his  insurance  money  to.  He  could 
go  the  most  complicated  catechism  without  a  hitch 
every  time,  for  Maje  spent  weeks  on  the  sidings 
drilling  him,  until  it  came  to  naming  the  beneficiary  ; 
there  he  stuck.  Nobody  could  get  out  of  him  to 
whom  he  wanted  his  money  to  go. 

Had  he  no  relations  back  in  the  mountains  ? 
Nobody  up  in  the  Spider  country  ?  No  wives  or 
daughters  or  fathers  or  mothers  or  friends  or  any 
thing  ?  Delaroo  always  shook  his  head.  If  they 
persisted  he  shook  his  head.  Maje  Sampson,  sit 
ting  after  supper,  would  ask,  and  Martie,  when  the 
dishes  were  side-tracked,  would  begin  to  sew  and 
listen,  and  Delaroo,  of  course,  would  listen,  but 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     225 

never  by  any  chance  would  he  answer ;  not  even 
when  Maje  tried  to  explain  how  it  bore  on  16 
to  I.  He  declined  to  discuss  any  ratio  or  to 
name  any  beneficiary  whatsoever.  The  right  hon 
orable  recording  secretaries  fumed  and  denounced 
it  as  irregular,  and  Maje  Sampson  wore  holes  in  his 
elbows  gesticulating,  but  in  the  matter  of  distribut 
ing  his  personal  share  of  the  unearned  increment, 
Delaroo  expressed  no  preference  whatsoever.  He 
paid  his  dues;  he  made  his  passes;  he  sat  in  his 
place,  what  more  could  be  required  ?  If  they  put  him 
in  a  post  of  honor  he  filled  it  with  a  silent  dignity. 
If  they  set  him  to  guard  the  outer  portal  he  guarded 
well ;  it  was  perilous  rather  for  a  visiting  frater  or 
even  a  local  brother  to  try  getting  past  Delaroo 
if  he  was  rusty  in  the  ritual.  Not  Maje  Sampson 
himself  could  work  the  outer  guard  without  the 
countersign  ;  if  he  forgot  it  in  the  hurry  of  get 
ting  to  lodge  he  had  to  cool  his  heels  in  the 
outer  air  till  it  came  back ;  Delaroo  was  pitiless. 

In  the  cab  he  was  as  taciturn  as  he  was  in  the 
lodge  or  under  the  kerosene  lamp  at  Sampson's;  he 
'5 


226  Held  for  Orders 

just  listened.  But  his  firing  was  above  any  man'& 
who  ever  stoked  the  264.  Delaroo  made  more 
steam  on  less  coal  than  any  man  in  the  roundhouse. 
Neighbor  began  to  hold  him  up  as  a  model  for  the 
division,  and  the  boys  found  that  the  way  to  jolly 
Neighbor  was  to  say  nice  things  about  Delaroo. 
The  head  of  the  Motive  Power  would  brighten 
out  of  a  sulk  at  the  mention  of  Delaroo's  name, 
and  he  finally  fixed  up  a  surprise  for  the  Indian 
man.  One  night  after  Delaroo  came  in,  Neighbor, 
in  the  bluff  way  he  liked  to  use  in  promoting  a 
man,  told  Delaroo  he  could  have  an  engine ;  a 
good  one,  one  of  the  K.  class ;  as  much  finer  a 
machine  than  the  old  264  as  Duffy's  chronometer 
was  than  a  prize  package  watch.  Delaroo  never 
said  ay,  yes,  or  no ;  he  merely  listened.  Neighbor 
never  had  a  promotion  received  in  just  that  way ; 
it  nearly  gave  him  the  apoplexy. 

But  if  Delaroo  treated  the  proposal  coolly,  not  so 
Maje  Sampson ;  when  the  news  of  the  offer  reached 
him,  Maje  went  into  an  unaccountable  flutter. 
He  acted  at  first  exactly  as  if  he  wanted  to  hold 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     227 

his  man  back,  which  was  dead  against  cab  ethics. 
Finally  he  assented,  but  his  cheeks  went  flabby  and 
his  eyes  hollow,  and  he  showed  more  worry  than 
his  creditors.  Nobody  understood  it,  yet  there  was 
evidently  something  on,  and  the  Major's  anxiety 
increased  until  Delaroo,  the  Indian  fireman  and 
knight  companion  of  the  Ancient  Order  of  Druids 
and  Fluids,  completely  took  Neighbor's  breath  by 
declining  the  new  engine.  That  was  a  West  End 
wonder.  He  said  if  it  made  no  odds  he  would  stay 
on  the  264.  The  men  all  wondered ;  then  some 
thing  new  came  up  and  the  thing  was  forgotten. 
Maje  Sampson's  cheeks  filled  out  again,  he  regained 
his  usual  nerve,  and  swore  on  the  money  question 
harder  than  ever. 

After  that  it  was  pretty  generally  understood  that 
Delaroo  and  Maje  Sampson  and  the  264  were  fix 
tures.  Neighbor  never  gave  any  one  a  chance  to 
decline  an  engine  more  than  once.  The  boys  all 
knew,  if  Delaroo  did  n't,  that  he  would  be  firing  a 
long  time  after  throwing  that  chance  by  j  and 
he  was. 


228  Held  for  Orders 

The  combination  came  to  be  regarded  as  eternal. 
When  the  sloppy  264  hove  in  sight,  little  Delaroo 
and  big  Maje  Sampson  were  known  to  be  behind 
the  boiler  pounding  up  and  down  the  mountains, 
up  and  down,  year  in  and  year  out.  Big  engines 
came  into  the  division  and  bigger.  All  the  time 
the  division  was  crowding  on  the  Motive  Power 
and  putting  in  the  mammoth  types,  until,  when  the 
264  was  stalled  alongside  a  consolidated,  or  a 
mogul  skyscraper,  she  looked  like  an  ancient  beer 
glass  set  next  an  imported  stein. 

With  the  264,  when  the  800  or  the  noo  class 
were  concerned,  it  was  simply  a  case  of  keep  out 
of  our  way  or  get  smashed,  Maje  Sampson  or  no 
Maje  Sampson,  money  question  or  no  money  ques 
tion.  Benevolent  benefits  fraternally  proposed  or 
ante-room  signals  confidentially  put  forth  by  the 
bald-headed  264  were  of  no  sort  of  consequence 
with  the  modern  giants  that  pulled  a  thousand  tons 
in  a  string  up  a  two-thousand-foot  grade  at  better 
than  twenty  miles  an  hour.  It  was  a  clear  yet 
cold,  "  You  old  tub,  get  out  of  our  way,  will  you  ?  " 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     229 

And  the  fast  runners,  like  Moore  and  Hawksworth 
and  Mullen  and  the  Crowleys,  Tim  and  Syme,  had 
about  as  much  consideration  for  Maje  and  his 
financial  theories  as  their  machines  had  for  his 
machine.  His  jim-crow  freight  outfit  did  n't  cut 
much  of  a  figure  in  their  track  schedules. 

So  the  Maje  Sampson  combination,  but  quite  as 
brassy  as  though  it  had  rights  of  the  first  class, 
dodged  the  big  fellows  up  and  down  the  line  pretty 
successfully  until  the  government  began  pushing 
troops  into  the  Philippines,  and  there  came  days 
when  a  Rocky  Mountain  sheep  could  hardly  have 
kept  out  of  the  way  of  the  extras  that  tore,  hissing 
and  booming,  over  the  mountains  for  'Frisco.  For 
a  time  the  traffic  came  hot ;  so  hot  we  were 
pressed  to  handle  it.  There  was  a  good  bit  of  skir 
mishing  on  the  part  of  the  passenger  department  to 
get  the  business,  and  then  tremendous  skirmishing 
in  the  operating  department  to  deliver  the  goods. 
Every  broken-down  coach  in  the  backyards  was 
scrubbed  up  for  the  soldier  trains.  We  aimed  to 
kill  just  as  few  as  possible  of  the  boys  en  route  to 


23^  Held  for  Orders 

X.  the  islands,  though  that  may  have  been  a  mistaken 
mercy.  However,  we  handled  them  well ;  not  a 
man  in  khaki  got  away  from  us  in  a  wreck,  and  in 
the  height  of  the  push  we  put  more  live  stock  into 
South  Omaha,  car  for  car,  than  has  ever  gone  in 
before  or  since. 

It  was  November,  and  great  weather  for  running, 
and  when  the  rails  were  not  springing  under  the  sol 
diers  westbound,  they  were  humming  under  the 
steers  eastbound.  Maje  Sampson,  with  his  beer 
kegs  and  his  crackers  and  his  264  and  his  be- 
knighted  fireman,  hugged  the  sidings  pretty  close 
that  week.  Some  of  the  trains  had  part  of  the 
rights  and  others  had  the  remainder.  The  264  and 
her  train  took  what  was  left,  which  threw  Maje 
Sampson  most  of  the  time  on  the  worn-out,  run 
down,  scrap  rails  that  made  corduroy  roads  of  the 
passing  tracks.  Then  came  the  night  that  Moul- 
ton,  the  Philippine  commandant,  went  through  on 
his  special.  With  his  staffand  his  baggage  and  his 
correspondents  and  that  kind  he  took  one  whole 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story  231 
train.  Syme  Crowley  pulled  them,  with  Ben  Sherer, 
conductor,  and  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  that  pair, 
they  deliver  their  trains  on  time.  Maje  Sampson  left 
Medicine  Bend  with  Twenty-nine  at  noon  on  his 
regular  run  and  tried  to  get  west.  But  between  the 
soldiers  behind  him  and  the  steers  against  him,  he 
soon  lost  every  visionary  right  he  ever  did  possess. 
They  laid  him  out  nearly  every  mile  of  the  way  to 
the  end  of  the  run.  At  Sugar  Buttes  they  held  him 
thirty  minutes  for  the  Moulton  Special  to  pass, 
and,  to  crown  his  indignities,  kept  him  there  fifteen 
minutes  more  waiting  for  an  eastbound  sheep  train. 
Sampson  afterward  claimed  that  Barnes  Tracy,  the 
despatcher  that  did  it,  was  a  Gold  Democrat,  but 
this  never  was  proved. 

It  was  nearing  dark  when  the  crew  of  local  freight 
Twenty-nine  heard  the  dull  roar  of  the  Moulton 
Special  speeding  through  the  canon  of  the  Rat.  A 
passenger  train  running  through  the  canon  at  night 
comes  through  with  the  far  roll  of  a  thousand 
drums,  deepening  into  a  rumble  of  thunder.  Then 
out  and  over  all  comes  the  threatening  purr  of  the 


232  Held  for  Orders 

straining  engine  breaking  into  a  storm  of  exhausts, 
until  like  a  rocket  the  headlight  bursts  streaming 
from  the  black  walls,  and  Moore  on  the  811,  or 
Mullen  with  the  818,  or  Hawksworth  in  the  mo, 
tear  with  a  fury  of  alkali  and  a  sweep  of  noise  over 
the  Butte  switch,  past  caboose  and  flats  and  boxes 
and  the  264  like  fading  light.  Just  a  sweep  of 
darkened  glass  and  dead  varnish,  a  whirl  of  smok 
ing  trucks  beating  madly  at  the  fishplates,  and  the 
fast  train  is  up,  and  out,  and  gone  ! 

Twenty-nine,  local,  was  used  to  all  this.  Used 
to  the  vanishing  tail  lights,  the  measured  sinking 
of  the  sullen  dust,  the  silence  brooding  again  over 
the  desert  with,  this  night,  fifteen  minutes  more  to 
wait  for  the  east-bound  stock  train  before  they  dared 
open  the  switch.  Maje  Sampson  killed  the  time  by 
going  back  to  the  caboose  to  talk  equities  with  the 
conductor.  It  was  no  trick  for  him  to  put  away 
fifteen  minutes  discussing  the  rights  of  man  with 
himself;  and  with  an  angel  of  a  fireman  to  watch 
the  cab,  why  not  ?  The  264  standing  on  the 
siding  was  chewing  her  cud  as  sweet  as  an  old 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     233 

cow,  with  maybe  a  hundred  and  forty  pounds  of 
steam  to  the  right  of  the  dial,  maybe  a  hundred  and 
fifty  —  I  say  maybe,  because  no  one  but  Delaroo 
ever  knew  —  when  the  sheep  train  whistled. 

Sheep —  nothing  but  sheep.  Car  after  car  after 
car,  rattling  down  from  the  Short  line  behind  two 
spanking  big  engines.  They  whistled,  hoarse  as 
pirates,  for  the  Butte  siding,  and,  rising  the  hill  a 
mile  west  of  it,  bore  down  the  grade  throwing  Dan- 
nah  coal  from  both  stacks  like  hydraulic  gravel. 

No  one  knew  or  ever  will  know  how  it  happened. 
They  cat-hauled  men  on  the  carpet  a  week  about 
that  switch.  The  crew  of  the  Moulton  Special 
testified ;  the  crews  of  the  stock  train  testified ; 
Maje  Sampson  testified  ;  his  conductor  and  both 
brakemen  testified  ;  the  roadmaster  and  the  section 
boss  each  testified,  and  their  men  testified  —  but 
however  or  whatever  it  was  — whether  the  Moul 
ton  Special  fractured  the  tongue,  or  whether  the 
pony  of  the  lead  engine  flew  the  guard,  or  whether 
the  switch  had  been  opened,  or  whether,  in  closing, 
the  slip  rail  had  somehow  failed  to  follow  the  rod  — 


234  Held  for  Orders 

the  double-headed  stocker  went  into  that  Buttc 
switch,  into  that  Butte  siding,  into  the  peaceable 
old  264  and  the  Twenty-nine,  local,  like  a  lyddite 
shell,  crashing,  rearing,  ripping,  scattering  two  whole 
trains  into  blood  and  scrap.  Destruction,  madness, 
throes,  death,  silence ;  then  a  pyre  of  dirty  smoke, 
a  wail  of  sickening  bleats,  and  a  scream  of  hissing 
steam  over  a  thousand  sheep  caught  in  the  sudden 
shambles. 

There  was  frightened  crawling  out  of  the  shat 
tered  cabooses,  a  hurrying  up  of  the  stunned  crews, 
and  a  bewildering  count  of  heads.  Both  engine 
crews  of  the  stock  train  had  jumped  as  their  train 
split  the  switch.  The  train  crews  were  badly 
shaken  ;  the  head  brakeman  of  the  sheep  train  lay 
torn  in  the  barbed-wire  fencing  the  right  of  way ; 
but  only  one  man  was  missing  —  the  fireman  of 
Twenty-nine  —  Delaroo. 

"  Second  86  jumped  west  switch  passing  track 
and  went  into  train  29,  engine  264.  Bad  spill. 
Delaroo,  fireman  the  264,  missing,"  wired  Sugar 
Buttes  to  Medicine  Bend  a  few  minutes  later. 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story      235 

Neighbor  got  up  there  by  ten  o'clock  with  both 
roadmasters  and  the  wrecking  outfit.  It  was  dark 
as  a  canon  on  the  desert  that  night.  Benedict 
Morgan's  men  tore  splintered  car  timber  from  the 
debris,  and  on  the  knolls  back  of  the  siding  lighted 
heaping  bonfires  that  threw  a  light  all  night  on  the 
dread  pile  smoking  on  the  desert.  They  dug  by 
the  flame  of  the  fires  at  the  ghastly  heap  till  mid 
night  ;  then  the  moon  rose,  an  extra  crew  arrived 
from  the  Bend,  and  they  got  the  derrick  at  work. 
Yet  with  all  the  toil  when  day  broke  the  confu 
sion  looked  worse  confounded.  The  main  line 
was  so  hopelessly  blocked  that  at  daylight  a  special 
with  ties  and  steel  was  run  in  to  lay  a  temporary 
track  around  the  wreck. 

"  What  do  I  think  of  it  ?  "  muttered  Neighbor,, 
when  the  local  operator  asked  him  for  a  report  for 
Callahan.  "I  think  there's  two  engines  for  the 
scrap  in  sight  —  and  the  264,  if  we  can  ever  find 
anything  of  her  —  and  about  a  million  sheep  to  pay 
for  — "  Neighbor  paused  to  give  an  order  and 
survey  the  frightful  scene. 


236  Held  for  Orders 

"  And  Delaroo,"  repeated  the  operator.  "  He 
wants  to  know  about  Delaroo  — " 

"  Missing." 

At  dawn  hot  coffee  was  passed  among  the 
wreckers,  and  shortly  after  sunrise  the  McCloud 
gang  arrived  with  the  second  derrick.  Then  the 
men  of  the  night  took  hold  with  a  new  grip  to  get 
into  the  heart  of  the  pile ;  to  find  —  if  he  was  there 
—  Delaroo. 

None  of  the  McCloud  gang  knew  the  man  they 
were  hunting  for,  but  the  men  from  the  Bend  were 
soon  telling  them  about  Maje  Sampson's  Indian. 
Not  a  mute  nod  he  ever  gave;  not  a  piece  of  to 
bacco  he  ever  passed ;  not  a  brief  word  he  ever 
spoke  to  one  of  the  battered  old  hulks  who  rode 
and  cut  and  slashed  and  stormed  and  drank  and 
cursed  with  Benedict  Morgan,  was  forgotten  then. 
Every  slewed,  twisted,  weather-beaten,  crippled-up, 
gin-shivered  old  wreck  of  a  wrecker — they  were 
hard  men  —  had  something  to  say  about  Delaroo. 
And  with  their  hair  matted  and  their  faces  streaked 
and  their  shirts  daubed  and  their  elbows  in  blood, 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     237 

they  said  it  —  whatever  it  was,  much  or  little  —  of 
Delaroo. 

The  picks  swung,  the  derricks  creaked,  and  all 
day  with  the  heaving  and  the  calling  they  toiled; 
but  the  sun  was  sinking  before  they  got  to  the 
middle  of  it.  Then  Benedict  Morgan,  crawling 
under  the  drivers  of  the  hind  mogul,  partly  uncov 
ered,  edged  out  with  a  set  face;  he  swore  he 
heard  breathing.  It  was  alcohol  to  the  veins  of 
the  double  gang.  Neighbor  himself  went  in  and 
heard  —  and  stayed  to  fasten  a  grapple  to  pull  the 
engine  truck  off  the  roof  of  a  box  car  that  was 
jammed  over  and  against  the  mogul  stack. 

The  big  derrick  groaned  as  the  slack  drew  and 
the  truck  crashed  through  a  tier  of  stays  and  swung 
whirling  into  the  clear.  A  giant  wrecker  dodged 
the  suspended  wheels  and  raising  his  axe  bit  a 
hole  into  the  jammed  roof.  Through  that  they 
passed  a  second  grapple,  and  presently  it  gave 
sullenly,  toppled  back  with  a  crash,  and  the  fore 
most  axman,  peering  into  the  opening,  saw  the 
heart  of  the  wreck.  Bending  forward,  he  picked 


238  Held  for  Orders 

up  something  struggling  in  his  arms.  They  thought 
it  was  a  man ;  but  it  was  a  sheep,  alive  and  uniiv 
jured,  under  all  the  horror:  that  was  the  breathing 
they  heard.  Benedict  Morgan  threw  the  man  and 
his  burden  aside  and  stepped  himself  into  the  gap 
and  through.  One  started  to  follow,  but  the  chief 
of  the  wreckers  waved  him  back.  Close  by  where 
the  sheep  had  been  freed  stood  Delaroo.  He  stood 
as  if  with  ear  alert,  so  closely  did  the  counterfeit 
seem  the  real.  So  sure  was  the  impression  of  life 
that  not  until  Morgan,  speaking  to  the  fireman,  put 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  did  he  realize  that  the 
Indian  stood  quite  dead  just  where  the  shock  had 
caught  him  in  his  cab. 

Stumbling  over  the  wreckage,  they  passed  him 
in  the  silence  of  the  sunset  from  hand  to  hand 
into  the  open.  A  big  fellow,  pallid  and  scared, 
tottered  after  them,  and  when  they  laid  the  dead 
man  down,  half  fell  at  his  side :  it  was  Maje 
Sampson. 

It  surprised  everybody  the  way  Maje  Sampson 
went  to  pieces  after  Delaroo  was  killed.  The 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     239 

Indian  was  carried  back  to  the  Bend  and  up 
to  Sampson's  and  laid  out  in  the  God-forsaken 
parlor ;  but  Maje  was  n't  any  good  fixing  things  up 
that  time.  He  usually  shone  on  like  occasions. 
He  was  the  comforter  of  the  afflicted  to  an  extra 
ordinary  degree;  he  gave  the  usual  mourner  no 
chance  to  let  up.  But  now  his  day  was  as  one 
that  is  darkened.  When  Neighbor  went  up  next 
night  to  see  about  some  minor  matters  connected 
with  the  funeral  and  the  precedence  of  the  various 
dozen  orders  that  were  to  march,  he  found  Maje 
Sampson  and  Martie  alone  in  the  darkness  of  the 
parlor  with  the  silent  Delaroo. 

Maje  turned  to  the  master  mechanic  from  where 
Delaroo  lay.  "  Neighbor,  you  might  as  well  know 
it  now  as  ary  time.  Don't  you  say  so,  Martie? 
Martie,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  Martie  burst  into 
tears  ;  but  through  them  Neighbor  caught  the  engi 
neer's  broken  confession.  "Neighbor  —  I'm  color 
blind."  The  master  mechanic  sat  stunned. 

"True  as  God's  word.  You  might  as  well 
know  it  now.  There 's  the  man  that  stood  between 


240  Held  for  Orders 

me  and  the  loss  of  my  job.  It 's  been  coming  on 
me  for  two  year.  He  knew  it,  that 's  why  he  stayed 
in  my  cab.  He  stayed  because  I  was  color  blind. 
He  knowed  I  'd  git  ketched  the  minute  a  new  fire 
man  come  in,  Neighbor.  He  watched  the  signals 
—  Delaroo.  I  'm  color  blind,  God  help  me." 
Maje  Sampson  sat  down  by  the  coffin.  Martie 
hushed  her  crying ;  the  three  sat  in  the  darkness. 

u  It  would  n't  worry  me  so  much  if  it  was  n't 
Pr  the  family,  Neighbor.  The  woman  —  and  the 
boys.  I  ain't  much  a-savin' ;  you  know  that.  If 
you  can  gi'  me  a  job  I  can  get  bread  an'  butter 
out  of,  give  it  to  me.  I  can't  pull  a  train ;  my 
eyes  went  out  with  this  man  here.  I  wish  to  God 
it  was  me,  and  him  standing  over.  A  man  that  's 
color  blind,  and  don't  know  a  thing  on  God's  earth 
but  runnin'  an  engine,  is  worse  'n'  a  dead  man." 

Neighbor  went  home  thinking. 

They  buried  Delaroo.  But  even  then  they  were 
not  through  with  him.  Delaroo  had  insurance  in 
every  order  in  the  Bend,  which  meant  almost  every 
one  on  earth.  There  was  no  end  to  his  benefit 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     241 

certificates,  and  no  known  beneficiaries.  But  when 
they  overhauled  his  trunk  they  found  every  last 
certificate  filed  away  up  to  the  last  paid  assessment 
and  the  last  quarter's  dues.  Then  came  a  shock. 
People  found  out  there  was  a  beneficiary.  While 
the  fraters  were  busy  making  their  passes  Delaroo 
had  quietly  been  directing  the  right  honorable 
recording  secretaries  to  make  the  benefits  run  to 
Neighbor,  and  so  every  dollar  of  his  insurance  ran. 
Nobody  was  more  thunderstruck  at  the  discovery 
than  the  master  mechanic  himself. 

Yet  Delaroo  meant  something  by  it.  After 
Neighbor  had  studied  over  it  nights  the  best  of  a 
month;  after  Maje  Sampson  had  tried  to  take  the 
color  test  and  failed,  as  he  persistently  said  he 
would  ;  after  he  had  gone  to  tinkering  in  the  round 
house,  and  from  tinkering  respectably,  and  by 
degrees  down  the  hill  to  wiping  at  a  dollar  and  forty 
cents  a  day  with  time  and  a  half  for  overtime  — 
Neighbor  bethought  himself  all  of  a  sudden  one 
day  of  a  paper  Delaroo  had  once  given  him  and 
asked  him  to  keep. 

16 


242  Held  for  Orders 

He  had  put  it  away  in  the  storekeeper's  safe  with 
his  own  papers  and  the  drawings  of  his  extension 
front  end  patent  —  and  safely  forgotten  all  about  it. 
It  was  the  day  they  had  to  go  into  the  county  court 
about  the  will  that  was  not,  when  he  recollected 
Delaroo's  paper  and  pulled  it  out  of  its  envelope. 
There  was  only  a  half  sheet  of  paper,  inside,  with 
this  writing  from  Delaroo  to  Neighbor: 

R.  B.  A.  —  What  is  coming  to  me  on  ensur- 
ance  give  to  Marty  Sampson,  wife  of  Maje.  Give 
iny  trunk  to  P.  McGraw. 

Rispk.,  P.  DE  LA  ROUX. 

When  the  master  mechanic  read  that  before  the 
probate  judge,  Maje  Sampson  took  a-trembling : 
Martie  hid  her  face  in  her  shawl,  crying  again. 
Maybe  a  glimmer  of  what  it  meant  came  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  over  her.  Maybe  she  remem 
bered  Delaroo  as  he  used  to  sit  with  them  under 
the  kerosene  lamp  while  Maje  untiringly  pounded 
the  money  question  into  him  —  smoking  as  he  lis 
tened,  and  Martie  mended  on  never-ending  trousers* 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story  243 
Looking  from  Maje  Sampson,  heated  with  mono 
logue,  to  his  wife,  patiently  stitching.  No  comments ; 
just  looking  as  Pierre  Delaroux  could  look. 

Strange,  Neighbor  thought  it,  and  yet,  maybe, 
not  so  strange.  It  was  all  there  in  the  paper  — 
the  torn,  worn  little  book  of  Delaroo's  life.  She 
was  the  only  woman  on  earth  that  had  ever  done 
him  a  kindness. 

Nobody  at  Medicine  Bend  quite  understood  it ; 
but  nobody  at  Medicine  Bend  quite  suspected  that 
under  all  the  barrenness  up  at  Maje  Sampson's  an 
ambition  could  have  survived  ;  yet  one  had.  Martie 
had  an  ambition.  Way  down  under  her  faded 
eyes  and  her  faded  dress  there  was  an  ambition, 
and  that  for  the  least  promising  subjects  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains  —  the  brickbats.  Under  the 
unending  mending  and  the  poverty  and  the  toil, 
Martie,  who  never  put  her  nose  out  of  doors,  who 
never  attended  a  church  social,  never  ventured 
even  to  a  free  public  school  show  —  had  an  ambi 
tion  for  the  boys.  She  wanted  the  two  biggest  to 
go  to  the  State  University ;  wanted  them  to  go  and 


244  Held  for  Orders 

get  an  education.  And  they  went;  and  Maje 
Sampson  says  them  boys,  ary  one,  has  forgotten 
more  about  the  money  question  than  he  ever  knew. 
It  looks  as  if  after  all  the  brickbats  might  come 
out  j  a  bit  of  money  in  Martie's  hands  goes  so  far. 

There  are  a  few  soldiers  buried  at  the  Bend. 
Decoration  Day  there  is  an  attempt  at  a  turn-out ; 
a  little  speeching  and  a  little  marching.  A  thin, 
straggle  column  of  the  same  warped,  bent  old 
fellows  in  the  same  faded  old  blue.  Up  the  hill 
they  go  and  around  to  the  cemetery  to  decorate. 

When  they  turn  at  Maje  Sampson's  place  — 
there 's  a  gate  there  now  —  Martie  and  more  or 
less  of  the  boys,  and  Maje,  kind  of  join  in  along 
and  go  over  with  them  carrying  a  basket  or  so  of 
flowers  and  a  bucket  of  water. 

The  boys  soon  stray  over  to  where  the  crowd 
is,  around  the  graves  of  the  Heroes.  But  Martie 
gets  down  by  a  grave  somewhat  apart  and  prods 
the  drifting  gravel  all  up  loose  with  an  old  case- 
knife.  You  would  think  she  might  be  kneading 
bread  there,  the  way  she  sways  under  her  sun' 


The  Master  Mechanic's  Story     245 

bonnet  and  gloves  —  for  her  little  boiled  hands  are 
in  gloves  now. 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  good  it  does  Delaroo 
spiking  up  his  grave  once  a  year,"  Neighbor  always 
winds  up.  u  It  may  not  do  him  a  blamed  bit  of 
good,  I  don't  say  it  does.  But  I  can  see  them.  I 
see  them  from  the  roundhouse ;  it  does  me  good. 
Hm?" 

"  Maje  ?  "  he  will  add.  "  Why,  I  Ve  got  him 
over  there  at  the  house,  wiping.  I  'm  going  to 
put  him  running  the  stationary  if  old  John  Boxer 
ever  dies.  When  will  he  die  ?  Blamed  if  I  know. 
John  is  a  pretty  good  man  yet.  I  can't  kill  him, 
can  I  ?  Well,  then,  what 's  a  matter  with  you  ? 

"  No,  Maje  don't  talk  as  much  as  he  used  to ; 
forgetting  his  passes  more  or  less,  too.  Getting 
old  like  some  more  of  us.  He  's  kind  of  quit 
the  money  question ;  claims  he  don't  understand 
it  now  as  well  as  the  boys  do.  But  he  can  talk 
about  Delaroo;  he  understands  Delaroo  pretty  well 


Held   for    Orders 

The  Operator's  Story 

* 

DE  MOLAY  FOUR 


The   Operator's  Story 


DE  MOLAY  FOUR 

VERY  able  men  have  given  their  lives  to 
the   study   of  Monsoon's   headlight  5  yet 
science,  after    no    end    of  investigation, 
stands  in  its  presence  baffled. 

The  source  of  its  illumination  is  believed  to  be 
understood.  I  say  believed,  because  in  a  day  when 
yesterday's  beliefs  are  to-morrow's  delusions  I 
commit  myself  personally  to  no  theory.  Whether 
it  is  a  thing  living  or  dead ;  whether  malign  to 
mackerel  or  potent  in  its  influence  on  imperfectly 
understood  atmospheric  phenomena,  I  do  not 
know.  I  doubt  whether  anybody  knows,  except 
maybe  Monsoon  himself.  I  know  only  that  on 


250  Held  for  Orders 

the  West  End,  Monsoon's  headlight,  from  every 
point  of  view,  stands  high,  and  that  on  one  occa 
sion  it  stood  between  Abe  Monsoon  and  a  frightful 
catastrophe. 

There  have  been  of  late  studied  efforts  to  intro 
duce  electric  headlights  on  the  Mountain  Division. 
But  there  are  grizzled  men  in  the  cab  who  look 
with  distrust  —  silent,  it  is  true,  yet  distrust — on 
the  claims  put  forth  for  them.  While  Monsoon's 
headlight  does  its  work  —  as  it  has  done  even  long 
before  Monsoon  followed  it  to  the  West  End, 
and  will  do  long  after  he  leaves  the  West  End 
—  why,  they  say,  and  reasonably  enough,  take  on 
new  and  theoretical  substitutes  ? 

While  the  discussion  deepens  and  even  rages  in 
the  Wickiup,  Monsoon  himself  is  silent.  Brave 
men  are  modest  men.  Among  ourselves  we  don't 
use  adjectives ;  where  Monsoon  is  known  it  is  not 
necessary  to  put  anything  ahead  of  his  name  — 
except,  may  be,  once  a  month  on  the  payroll  when 
the  cross-eyed  accountant  adds  A.  or  Abe  or  Abra 
ham,  just  as  he  happens  to  be  fixed  for  time.  Mon- 


The  Operator's  Story  251 

soon's  name  in  itself  stands  for  a  great  deal.  When 
his  brother  engineers,  men  who  have  grown  seamy 
and  weatherbeaten  in  the  service,  put  up  their 
voices  for  Monuoon's  headlight ;  or  when  talka 
tive  storekeepers,  who  servilely  jump  at  headquar 
ters'  experiments  in  order  to  court  the  favor  of 
the  high,  speak  for  electricity,  Abe  Monsoon  him 
self  is  silent.  His  light  is  there ;  let  them  take  it 
or  leave  it  as  they  will.  If  the  Superintendent  of 
Motive  Power  should  attempt  to  throw  it  out  for 
the  new-fangled  arrangement,  Monsoon  would 
doubtless  feel  that  it  was  not  the  first  time  Omaha 
had  gone  wrong  —  and,  for  that  matter,  that  neither 
he  nor  anybody  else  had  assurance  it  would  be  the 
last.  However  — 

The  story  opens  on  Bob  Duffy.  Bob,  right  from 
the  start,  was  what  I  call  a  good-looker,  and,  being 
the  oldest  boy,  he  had  more  of  the  swing  anyway. 
When  Martin  came  along,  his  mother  had  n't  got 
over  thinking  about  Bob.  Doubtless  she  thought, 
too,  of  Martin  ;  but  he  was  kind  of  overshadowed. 
Bob  began  by  clerking  in  the  post-office  and  de- 


252  Held  for  Orders 

livering  mail  to  all  the  pretty  girls.  His  sympathy 
for  the  girls  was  so  great  that  after  a  while  he 
began  passing  out  letters  to  them  whether  they 
were  addressed  to  the  girls  or  to  somebody  else. 
This  gradually  weakened  his  influence  with  the 
government. 

Martin  began  work  in  the  telegraph  office ;  he 
really  learned  the  whole  thing  right  there  at  the 
Bend  under  Callahan.  Began,  carrying  Western 
Unions  stuck  at  his  waist  under  a  heavy  leather 
belt.  He  wore  in  those  days,  when  he  had  real 
responsibility,  a  formidable  brown  Stetson  that  ap 
peared  bent  on  swallowing  his  ears  :  it  was  about 
the  time  he  was  rising  trousers  and  eleven.  No 
body  but  Sinkers  ever  beat  Martin  Duffy  deliver 
ing  messages,  and  nobody,  bar  none  —  Bullhead, 
McTerza,  anybody  —  ever  beat  him  eating  pie. 
It  was  by  eating  pie  that  he  was  able  to  wear  the 
belt  so  long  —  and  you  may  take  that  either  way. 
But  I  speak  gladly  of  the  pie,  because  in  the  usual 
course  of  events  there  is  n't  much  pie  in  a  de- 
spatcher's  life.  There  is,  by  very  large  odds, 


The  Operator's  Story  253 

more  anxiety  than  pie,  and  I  introduce  the  pie, 
not  to  give  weight  to  the  incidents  that  follow 
but  rather  to  lighten  them ;  though  as  Duffy  has 
more  recently  admitted  this  was  not  always  the 
effect  of  the  pie  itself. 

I  do  not  believe  that  Martin  Duffy  ever  had  an 
enemy.  A  right  tight  little  chap  he  was,  with 
always  a  good  word,  even  under  no  end  of  pressure 
on  the  single  track.  There 's  many  a  struggling 
trainman  that  will  look  quick  and  grateful  when 
any  fellow  far  or  near  speaks  a  word  about  Martin 
Duffy.  Fast  as  he  climbed,  his  head  never 
swelled.  His  hats  rested,  even  after  he  got  a  key, 
same  as  the  original  Stetson,  right  on  the  wings  of 
his  ears.  But  his  heart  grew  right  along  after  his 
head  stopped,  and  that 's  where  he  laid  over  some 
other  railroad  men  I  could  mention  if  I  had  to, 
which  I  don't  —  not  here. 

About  the  time  it  looked  as  if  Martin  would 
make  a  go  of  it  on  the  road,  the  post-office  in 
spectors  were  thinking  Bob  would  make  a  go  of 
it  over  the  road.  But  he  was  such  .a  kid  of  a 


254  Held  for  Orders 

fellow  that  the  postmaster  convinced  the  detec 
tives  Bob's  way  of  doing  things  was  simple  foolish 
ness,  which  it  probably  was,  and  they  merely  swore 
him  out  of  the  service. 

It  was  then  that  Martin  reached  out  a  hand  to 
his  elder  brother.  There  were  really  just  the  two 
brothers ;  and  back  of  them  —  as  there  is,  some 
where,  back  of  every  railroad  man  —  a  mother. 
No  father  —  not  generally;  just  a  mother.  A 
quiet,  sombre  little  woman  in  a  shawl  and  a  bonnet 
of  no  special  shape  or  size  —  just  a  shawl  and  a 
bonnet,  that 's  all.  Anyhow,  the  Duffy  boys' 
mother  was  that  way,  and  there 's  a  lot  more 
like  her.  I  don't  know  what  gets  the  fathers ; 
maybe,  very  often,  the  scrap.  But  there  's  almost 
always,  somewhere,  a  mother.  So  after  Martin 
began  to  make  a  record,  to  help  his  mother  and 
his  brother  both,  he  spoke  for  Bob.  Callahan 
did  n't  hesitate  or  jolly  him  as  he  used  to  do 
with  a  good  many.  He  thought  the  company 
could  n't  have  too  maay  of  the  Duffy  kind ;  so 
he  said,  "  Yes,  sure."  And  Bob  Duffy  was  put 


The  Operator's  Story  255 

at  work  —  same  thing  exactly  :  carrying  messages, 
reading  hair-destroyers  and  blowing  his  salary  on 
pie. 

But  pie  acts  queer.  Sometimes  it  makes  a  man's 
head  solid  and  his  heart  big ;  then  again  it  makes 
a  man's  head  big  and  his  heart  solid.  I  'm  not 
saying  anything  more  now  except  that  pie  cer 
tainly  acts  different. 

Bob  Duffy  was  taller  than  Martin  and  I  would 
repeat,  handsomer;  but  I  can't,  because  Martin 
had  absolutely  no  basis  of  beauty  to  start  with. 
He  was  parchment-like  and  palish  from  sitting 
night  after  night  and  night  after  night  over  a 
sounder.  Never  sick  a  day  in  his  life ;  but  always 
over  the  sounder  until,  sleeping  or  waking,  resting 
or  working,  the  current  purred  and  purred  through 
his  great  little  head  like  a  familiarity  taking  old 
tomcat.  He  could  guess  more  off  a  wire  than  most 
men  could  catch  after  the  whole  thing  had  tumbled 
in. 

So  up  and  up  ladder  he  went.  Messenger,  ope 
rator —  up  to  assistant  despatcher,  up  to  a  regular 


256  Held  for  Orders 

trick  despatcher.  Up  to  the  orders  and  signing  the 
J.  M.  C.,  the  letters  that  stood  for  our  superin 
tendent's  name  and  honor.  Up  to  the  trains  and 
their  movements,  up  to  the  lives,  then  CHIEF  !  — 
with  the  honor  of  the  division  all  clutched  in  Martin 
Duffy's  three  quick  right  ringers  on  the  key  and  his 
three  quick  left  fingers  on  the  pen  at  the  same  in 
stant  scratching  orders  across  the  clip.  Talk  about 
ambidexterity  —  Martin  did  n't  know  what  it  would 
be  like  to  use  one  hand  at  a  time.  If  Martin  Duffy 
said  right,  trains  went  right.  If  he  said  wrong, 
trains  went  wrong.  But  Martin  never  said  the 
wrong;  he  said  only  the  right.  Giddings  knows; 
he  copied  for  him  long  enough.  Giddings  and 
plenty  more  of  them  can  tell  all  about  Martin 
Duffy. 

Bob  did  n't  rise  in  the  service  quite  so  fast  as 
Martin.  He  was  rather  for  having  a  good  time. 
He  did  more  of  the  social  act,  and  that  pleased  his 
mother,  who,  on  account  of  her  bonnet-and-shawl 
complexion,  did  n't  achieve  much  that  way.  Mar 
tin,  too,  was  proud  of  his  brother,  and  as  soon  as 


The  Operator's  Story  257 

Bob  could  handle  a  wire,  which  was  very  soon 
(for  he  learned  things  in  no  time)  Martin  got 
Callahan  to  put  him  up  at  Grant  as  operator. 
Bob  got  the  place  because  he  was  Martin's 
brother,  nothing  else.  He  held  it  about  two 
months,  then  he  resigned  and  went  to  San  'Frisco. 
He  was  a  restless  fellow  ;  it  was  Bob  up  and  Bob 
down.  For  a  year  he  wandered  around  out  there, 
telegraphing,  then  he  bobbed  up  again  in  Medicine 
Bend  out  of  a  job.  He  wanted  to  go  to  work,  and 

—  well,  Callahan  —  Martin's  brother,  you  know 

—  sent    him    up    to    Montair    as   night   operator. 
Three  months  he  worked  steady  as  a  clock.     Then 
one  night  the  despatches  at  the  Bend  could  n't  get 
Montair  for  two  hours.     It  laid  out  Number  Six 
and  a  Special  with  the  General  Manager  and  made 
no  end  of  a  row. 

Martin  said  right  off  he  ought  to  go.  But  there 
was  the  little  mother  up  home,  silent,  I  expect,  but 
pleading-like.  It  was  left  largely  to  Martin,  for 
the  young  fellow  was  already  chief;  and  that  was 
the  trouble  —  he  hated  to  bear  down  too  hard ;  so 
17 


258  Held  for  Orders 

he  compromised  by  asking  his  superintendent  not 
to  fire  Bob  but  to  set  him  back.  They  sent  him 
up  as  night  man  to  Rat  River,  the  meanest  place 
on  the  whole  system.  That  was  the  summer  of 
the  Templars'  Conclave  at  San  'Frisco. 

We  worked  the  whole  spring  getting  things  up 
along  the  line,  from  Omaha  to  the  Sierras,  for  that 
Conclave.  Engines  were  overhauled,  rolling  stock 
touched  up,  roadbed  put  in  shape,  everything  shaken 
from  end  to  end.  Not  only  were  the  passenger 
records  to  be  smashed,  but  beyond  that  a  lot  of  our 
big  general  officers  were  way-up  Masons  and  meant 
that  our  line  should  get  not  merely  the  cream  of 
the  business  but  the  cream  of  the  advertising  out 
of  the  thing.  The  general  tenor  of  the  instruc 
tions  was  to  nickel-plate  everything,  from  the 
catalpas  to  the  target  rods.  For  three  months  be 
fore  the  Conclave  date  we  were  busy  getting  ready 
for  it,  and  when  the  big  day  drew  near  on  which 
we  were  to  undertake  the  moving  and  the  feeding  of 
six  thousand  people  one  way  on  one  track  through 
the  mountains,  the  cartinks  smoked  cross-cut 


The  Operator's  Story  259 

and  the  Russian  sectionmen  began  to  oil  their 
hair. 

Callahan  was  superintendent  under  Bucks,  then 
General  Manager,  and  Martin  Duffy,  Chief  De- 
spatcher,  Neighbor,  Superintendent  of  Motive  Power, 
and  Doubleday,  Division  Master  Mechanic,  and 
with  everything  buttoned  up  on  the  West  End  we 
went  that  Sunday  morning  on  the  firing  line  to  take 
the  first  of  the  Templar  Specials. 

Medicine  Bend  had  the  alkali  pretty  well  washed 
out  of  its  eyes,  and  never  before  in  its  history  had 
it  appeared  really  gay.  The  old  Wickiup  was  deco 
rated  till  it  looked  like  a  buck  rigged  for  a  ghost 
dance.  Right  after  daybreak  the  trains  began  roll 
ing  in  on  Harold  Davis's  trick.  Duffy  had  annulled 
all  local  freights  and  all  through  odds  and  evens,  all 
stock  tramps  east  and  all  westbound  empties  — 
everything  that  could  be,  had  been  suspended  for 
that  Sunday ;  and  with  it  all  there  were  still  by  five 
times  more  trains  than  ever  before  rolled  through 
Medicine  Bend  in  twenty-four  hours. 

It  was  like  a  festival  day  in  the  mountains.    Even 


260  Held  for  Orders 

the  Indians  and  the  squaw  men  turned  out  to 
see  the  fun.  There  was  a  crowd  at  the  depot  by 
five  o'clock,  when  the  first  train  rolled  up  the  lower 
gorge  with  St.  John's  Commandery,  Number  Three 
from  Buffalo ;  and  the  Pullmans  were  gay  with 
bunting.  The  Medicine  Bend  crowd  gave  them 
an  Indian  yell  and  in  two  minutes  the  Knights, 
with  their  scalps  in  their  hands  as  a  token  of  sur 
render,  were  tumbling  out  of  their  sleepers  into  the 
crisp  dawn.  They  were  just  like  schoolboys,  and 
when  Shorty  Lovelace  —  the  local  curiosity  who 
had  both  feet  and  both  hands  frozen  off  the  night 
he  got  drunk  with  Matt  Cassidy  at  Goose  River 
Junction  —  struck  up  on  his  mouth-organ  "  Put 
Me  Off  at  Buffalo,"  they  dropped  seven  dollars, 
odd,  and  three  baggage  checks  into  his  hat  while 
the  crews  were  changing  engines.  It  appeared  to 
affect  them  uncommon,  to  see  a  fellow  without 
any  hands  or  feet  play  the  mouth-organ  and  be 
fore  sun-down  Shorty  made  the  killing  of  his  life. 
With  what  he  raked  in  that  day  he  kept  the  city 
marshal  guessing  for  three  months  —  which  was 


The  Operator's  Story  261 

also  pretty  good  for  a  man  without  any  hands  or 
feet. 

All  day  it  was  that  way  :  train  after  train  and 
ovation  after  ovation.  The  day  was  cool  as  a 
watermelon — August  —  and  bright  as  a  baby's 
face  all  through  the  mountains  ;  and  the  Templars 
went  up  into  the  high  passes  with  all  the  swing  and 
noise  we  could  raise.  Harold  Davis  took  it  all 
morning  steady  from  4  A.  M.  at  the  despatcher's 
key.  He  was  used  up  long  before  noon ;  but  he 
stayed,  and  just  at  twelve  o'clock,  while  a  big 
Templar  train  from  Baltimore  was  loading  its  com- 
mandery  in  front  of  the  Wickiup  after  an  early 
dinner,  and  a  big  Templar  band  played  a  tingling 
two-step,  Martin  Duffy  stuck  his  dry,  parchment 
face  into  the  platform  crowd,  elbowed  his  way 
unnoticed  through  it,  climbed  the  Wickiup  stairs, 
walked  into  the  despatcher's  room,  and,  throwing 
off  his  hat  and  coat,  leaned  over  Harold  Davis's 
shoulder  and  took  a  transfer. 

Young  Giddings  had  been  sitting  there  in  a  per 
spiration  half  an  hour  then ;  he  copied  for  Martin 


262  Held  for  Orders 

DufFv  that  day.  At  noon  they  figured  to  get  the 
last  Templar  over  the  Eagle  Pass  with  the  set  of 
the  sun.  When  Duffy  took  the  key  he  never 
looked  his  force  cleaner,  only  he  was  tired ;  Gid- 
dings  could  see  that.  The  regular  man  had  been 
sick  a  week  and  Martin  had  been  filling  in.  Be 
sides  that,  all  Saturday,  the  day  before,  he  had  been 
spiking  the  line  —  figuring  what  could  be  annulled 
and  what  could  n't ;  what  could  be  run  extra  and 
what  could  be  put  into  regulars.  Callahan  had 
just  got  married  and  was  going  out  to  the  Coast 
on  his  wedding  tour  in  Bucks's  car.  He  had  re 
fused  to  look  at  an  order  after  Saturday  night. 
Sunday  morning,  and  from  Sunday  morning  on, 
it  was  all  against  Duffy.  When  the  Chief  took  - 
the  middle  trick  there  were  fourteen  Templar  Spe 
cials  still  to  come  with  the  last  one  just  pulling  out 
of  McCloud  on  the  plains.  They  were  ordered 
to  run  with  right  of  track  over  all  eastbound  trains 
thirty  minutes  apart  all  the  way  through. 

A  minute  after  Martin  Duffy  sat   in,  the  con 
ductor  of  the  train  below  registered  out.      There 


The  Operator's  Story  263 

was  a  yell  pretty  soon,  and  away  went  the  Balti 
more  crowd  —  and  they  were  corkers,  too,  those 
Baltimore  fellows,  and  travelled  like  lords. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  trains  in  the 
West  Division  were  moving  just  like  clocks  on 
the  hour  and  the  half — thirty  minutes,  thirty  min 
utes,  thirty  minutes  — and,  as  far  as  young  Giddings 
could  see,  Duffy,  after  five  booming  hours,  was 
fresher  than  when  he  took  the  chair.  The  little 
despatcher's  capacity  for  work  was  something  enor 
mous  ;  it  was  n't  till  after  supper-time,  with  the 
worst  of  the  figuring  behind  him,  and  in  the  letting 
down  of  the  anxiety,  that  Martin  began  to  look 
older  and  his  dry  Indian  hair  began  to  crawl  over 
his  forehead.  By  that  time  his  eyes  had  lost  their 
snap,  and  when  he  motioned  Giddings  to  the  key, 
and  got  up  to  walk  up  and  down  the  hall  in  the 
breeze,  he  looked  like  a  wilted  potato  vine.  His 
,  last  batch  of  orders  was  only  a  little  one  compared 
with  those  that  had  gone  before.  But  with  the 
changes  to  the  different  crews  they  read  about  like 
this  — 


264  Held  for  Orders 

Telegraphic  Train  Order  Number  68.  Moun 
tain  Division. 

Superintendent's  Office,  August  8,  1892. 

For  Medicine  Bend  to  C.  and  E.  of  Engines  664, 
738,  810,  326,  and  826. 

Engines  664,  738,  810,  and  326  will  run  as  four 
Specials,  Medicine  Bend  to  Bear  Dance.  Engine 
826  will  double-head  Special  326  to  summit  of 
Eagle  Pass. 

First  No.  80,  Engine  179,  will  run  two  hours 
thirty  minutes  late  Bear  Dance  to  Medicine  Bend. 

Second  No.  80,  Engine  264,  will  run  three  hours 
and  fifteen  minutes  late  Bear  Dance  to  Medicine 
Bend. 

Third  No.  80,  Engine  210,  will  run  four  hours 
and  thirty  minutes  late  Bear  Dance  to  Medicine 
Bend. 

J.  M.  C. 
D. 

When  young  Giddings  sat  in,  the  sun  was  drop 
ping  between  the  Tetons.  In  the  yard  the  car- 
cleaners  were  polishing  the  plates  on  Bucks's  private 
car  and  the  darky  cook  was  pulling  chickens  out  of 
the  refrigerator.  Duffy  had  thirteen  Conclaves 


The  Operator's  Story  265 

moving  smoothly  on  the  middle  trick.  The  final 
one  was  due,  and  the  hostlers  were  steaming  down 
with  the  double-header  to  pull  it  over  the  Pass. 
This,  the  last  of  the  Commandery  trains,  was  to 
bring  DE  MOLAY  COMMANDERY  NUM 
BER  FOUR  of  Pittsburg,  and  the  orders  were  to 
couple  Bucks's  car  on  to  it  for  the  run  west.  De 
Molay  —  and  everybody  had  notice  —  was  Bucks's 
old  commandery  back  in  Pennsylvania,  and  he  was 
going  to  the  end  of  the  division  that  night  with  the 
cronies  of  his  youth.  Little  fellows  they  were  in 
railroading  when  he  rode  the  goat  with  them,  but 
now  mostly,  like  him,  big  fellows.  Half  a  dozen 
old  salts  had  been  pounding  ahead  at  him  all  day 
over  the  wire.  They  were  to  join  him  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Callahan  for  supper  in  the  private  car, 
and  the  yellow  cider  lay  on  the  thin-shaven  ice  and 
the  mountain  grouse  curled  on  the  grill  irons 
when  De  Molay  Four,  Pittsburg,  pulled  into  Medi 
cine  Bend. 

We  had  seen  a  good  many  swell  trains  that  day, 
the  swellest  that  ever  pounded  our  fishplates,  Pull- 


266  Held  for  Orders 

mans  solid,  and  the  finest  kind  of  people.  Boston, 
Washington,  New  York,  Philadelphia  sent  some 
pretty  gorgeous  trains.  But  with  at  least  half  the 
town  on  the  platform,  when  De  Molay  Four  rolled 
in  it  took  their  breath  so  they  could  n't  yell  till  the 
Sir  Knights  began  pouring  from  the  vestibules  and 
gave  Medicine  Bend  their  own  lordly  cheer. 

Mahogany  vestibules  they  were  and  extension 
platforms;  salon  lamps  and  nickeled  handrails; 
buffet  smoker  and  private  diner :  a  royal  train  and 
a  royal  company ;  olive  green  from  tender  to  tail 
lights  —  De  Molay  Four,  Pittsburg. 

Bucks's  old  gang  spied  him.  Modestly  back 
under  the  portico,  he  stood  near  the  ticket  window, 
and  they  broke  through  at  him  solid.  They  pulled 
him  and  hauled  him  and  mauled  him  and  passed  him 
from  hand  to  hand.  They  stood  him  on  his  head 
and  on  his  hands  and  on  his  feet  again,  and  told 
him  of  something  they  wanted  and  wanted  right 
off. 

Bucks  looked  the  least  bit  uncertain  as  he  con 
sidered  the  opening  request.  It  was  n't  much  in 


The  Operator's  Story  267 

some  ways,  what  they  asked ;  in  other  ways  it  was 
a  good  deal.  He  laughed  and  bantered  and  joked 
them  as  long  as  they  would  stand  it ;  then  he 
called  up  to  Martin  Duffy,  who  was  leaning  out 
the  despatchers'  window,  "  We  '11  see  how  he 
talks,"  laughed  Bucks  in  his  great  big  way.  u  But, 
boys,  it 's  up  to  the  Chief.  I  'm  not  in  it  on  the 
orders,  you  know.  Martin,"  he  called,  as  Duffy 
bent  his  head,  "  they  want  fifteen  minutes  here  to 
stretch  their  legs.  Say  they  've  been  roasted  in 
the  alkali  all  day.  Can  you  do  anything  for  the 
boys  ?  " 

The  boys  !  Big  fellows  in  fezes,  Shriner  style, 
and  slim  fellows  in  duck,  sailor  style,  and  bow- 
legged  fellows  in  cheviot,  any  old  style.  Chaps  in 
white  flannel,  and  chaps  in  gray,  and  chaps  in  blue. 
Turkish  whiskers  and  Key  West  cigars  and  Cru 
saders'  togs  —  and,  between  them,  Bucks,  his  head 
most  of  the  time  in  chancery.  It  was  the  first 
time  they  had  seen  him  since  he  had  made  our 
Jim  Crow  line  into  a  system  known  from  the 
Boston  and  Maine  to  the  Mexican  Central,  and, 


268  Held  for  Orders 

bar  none,  run  cleaner  or  better.  The  first  time 
they  had  seen  him  since  he  had  made  a  name  for 
himself  and  for  his  road  from  Newport  News  to 
'Frisco,  and  they  meant  now  to  kill  him,  dead. 

You  know  about  what  it  meant  and  about  how 
it  went,  how  it  had  to  go.  What  could  Martin 
say  to  the  man  who  had  made  him  all  he  was  and 
who  stood,  now  a  boy  again  among  the  boys  of 
his  boyhood,  and  asked  for  fifteen  minutes  —  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  for  De  Molay  Number  Four  ? 
It  threw  the  little  Chief  completely  off  his  sched 
ules  ;  just  fifteen  minutes  was  more  than  enough 
to  do  that.  All  the  work  was  done,  the  anxiety 
nearly  past  —  Martin  had  risen  to  rest  his  thump 
ing  head.  But  fifteen  minutes  ;  once  in  a  lifetime 
—  Bucks  asking  it. 

Duffy  turned  to  big  Jack  Moore  standing  at  his 
side  ready  to  pull  De  Molay  over  the  Pass,  and 
spoke  him  low.  Jack  nodded ;  everything  went 
with  Jack,  even  the  turn-tables  that  stuck  with 
other  engineers.  Martin  in  his  shirt-sleeves  leaned 
out  the  window  and,  looking  down  on  the  tur- 


The  Operator's  Story          269 

baned  and  turbulent  mob,  spoke  so  Bucks  could 
hear. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  demanded  the  most  puissant 
commander  of  De  Molay  excitedly.  "  What  does 
he  say,  Bucks  ?  " 

"  What  says  the  slave  ?  "  growled  a  second  for 
midable  crusader ;  u  out  with  it !  " 

"  All  we  want  is  fifteen  minutes." 

"You  would  n't  turn  us  down  on  fifteen  minutes 
this  far  from  an  oasis,  would  you,  Bucks  ?  "  pro 
tested  a  glass-eyed  Shriner. 

Bucks  looked  around  royally.  "  Fifteen  min 
utes  ?"  he  drawled.  "What's  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  a  lifetime,  Jackman,  on  the  last  oasis  ? 
Take  off  your  clothes,  you  fellows,  and  take  half  an 
hour.  Now  will  you  be  good  ?  " 

De  Molay  put  up  a  Templar  yell.  They  always 
get  the  good  things  of  life,  those  Pittsburg  men  j 
things  other  fellows  could  n't  begin  to  get.  They 
passed  the  word  through  the  sleepers,  and  the 
women  began  pouring  from  the  vestibules.  In 
two  quick  minutes  out  came  the  Duquesne  band 


270  Held  for  Orders 

in  red  pompons,  duck  trousers  and  military  jacket^ 
white  corded  with  black.  The  crowd  broke,  the 
band  marched  down  the  platform  and,  striking  up 
the  "  Washington  Post,"  opened  ranks  on  the  grass 
plot  above  the  Wickiup  to  receive  the  De  Molay 
guard.  One  hundred  Knights  Templar  in  fatigue 
debouched  into  a  bit  of  a  park,  and  in  the  purple 
of  the  sunset  gave  a  commandery  drill  to  the  honor 
of  Bucks  —  Bucks  and  the  West  End. 

It  was  Sunday  night,  and  still  as  August  could 
make  it.  The  battalion  moving  silent  and  mobile 
as  a  streamer  over  the  grass,  marched,  deployed 
and  rested.  They  broke,  to  the  clear-cut  music, 
into  crosses  and  squares  and  crescents  and  stars 
until  small  boys  went  cross-eyed,  and  wheeling  at 
last  on  the  line,  they  saluted  Bucks  —  himself  a 
past  grand  commander  —  and  the  railroad  men 
yelled. 

Meantime  the  General  Manager's  private  car 
had  been  pasted  on  the  tail-end  of  De  Molay  Four, 
and  a  pusher  edging  up,  stuck  its  nose  into  the  rear 
vestibule.  On  the  head  end  Jack  Moore  and 


The  Operator's  Story          271 

Oyster  were  backing  down  on  the  olive-green 
string  with  the  two  smoothest  moguls  on  the  divi 
sion.  Bucks  and  Neighbor  had  held  back  every 
thing  good  all  day  for  De  Molay  Four,  down  to 
engines  and  runners  and  conductor.  Pat  Francis 
carried  the  punch,  and  the  little  Chief  sat  again  in 
the  despatched  chair  for  De  Molay  Four. 

And  while  the  lovely  women  strolled  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  and  the  odor  of  mountain  sweetness, 
and  the  guard  drilled,  and  the  band  played,  the 
Chief  knit  his  brows  over  his  train  sheet.  It  looked 
now,  re-arranged,  re-ordered,  readjusted  and  re 
organized,  as  if  a  Gila  Monster  had  crawled  over  it 
without  wiping  his  feet.  And  when  De  Molay  Four 
got  ready  to  pull  out,  with  Moore  and  Oyster  on 
the  throttles  and  old  John  Parker  in  the  baggage, 
where  he  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  but  drink 
cigars  and  smoke  champagne  and  Pat  Francis  in 
the  aisles,  and  Bucks,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Callahan 
and  their  crowd,  in  private  Number  Twelve  — 
there  was  that  much  shouting  and  tooting  and 
waving  that  Martin  Duffy  simply  could  n't  think 


272  Held  for  Orders 

for  a  few  seconds ;  yet  he  held  them  all,  for  life  or 

for    death,   every   last    one,   in   the   curve   of  his 

fingers. 

So  they  stood  ready  in  the  gorge  while  Duffy 
studied  wearily  how  to  handle  First,  Second,  and 
Third  Eighty  against  them. 

First,  Second,  and  Third  Eighty  !  If  they  could 
only  have  been  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  rails  as 
easy  as  they  might  have  been  wiped  off  a  train 
sheet !  But  there  they  were,  three  sections,  and 
big  ones,  of  the  California  fast  freight.  High- 
class  stuff  for  Chicago  and  New  York  that 
could  n't  be  held  or  laid  out  that  Sunday,  not  for  a 
dozen  Conclaves.  All  day  First,  Second,  and 
Third  Eighty  had  been  feeling  their  way  east 
through  the  mountains,  trying  to  dodge  the  swell 
commanderies  rolling  by  impudent  as  pay  cars. 
But  all  the  final  plans  to  keep  them  out  of  every 
body's  way,  out  of  the  way  of  fez  and  turban  and 
chapeau  and  Greek  cross  and  crimson-splashed 
sleepers,  were  now  dashed  by  thirty  minutes  at 
Medicine  for  De  Molay  Four. 


The  Operator's  Storjr  273 

Order  after  order  went  from  under  his  hand. 
New  meeting-points  for  First,  Second,  and  Third 
Eighty  and  De  Molay  Four,  otherwise  Special  326. 

Pat  Francis  snatched  the  tissues  from  Duffy's 
hand  and,  after  the  battalion  had  dispersed  among 
their  wives  and  sisters,  and  among  the  sisters 
of  the  other  fellow  ;  after  the  pomponed  chaps 
had  chucked  the  trombones  and  cymbals  and  drums 
at  old  John  Parker's  shins ;  after  the  last  air- 
cock  had  been  tested  and  the  last  laggard  cru 
sader  thrown  forcibly  aboard  by  the  provost  guard, 
the  double-header  tooted,  "  Out !  "  and,  with  the 
flutter  of  an  ocean  liner,  De  Molay  Four  pulled  up 
the  gorge. 

The  orders  buttoned  in  the  reefers  gave  De  Molay 
a  free  sweep  to  Elcho,  and  Jack  Moore  and  Oyster 
were  the  men  to  take  it,  good  and  hard.  More 
over,  there  was  glory  aboard.  Pennsylvania  nobs, 
way-up  railroad  men,  waiting  to  see  what  for  mo 
tive  power  we  had  in  the  Woolly  West ;  how  we 
climbed  mountains  and  skirted  canon  walls,  and 
crawled  down  two  and  three  per  cent  grades.  Then 
18 


274  Held  for  Orders 

with  Bucks  himself  in  the  private  car  —  what  won 
der  they  let  her  out  and  swung  De  Molay  through 
the  gorge  as  maybe  you  Ve  seen  a  particularly 
buoyant  kite  snake  its  tale  out  of  the  grass  and 
drag  it  careening  skyward.  When  they  slowed 
for  Elcho  at  nightfall,  past  First  and  Second  Eighty, 
and  Bucks  named  the  mileage,  the  Pennsys  refused 
to  believe  it  for  the  hour's  run.  But  fast  as  they 
had  sped  along  the  iron  trail,  Martin  DufFy's  work 
had  sped  ahead  of  them,  and  this  order  was  waiting: 

Telegraphic  Train  Order  Number  79. 
C.  and  E.  Third  No.  80,  Rat  River. 
C.  and  E.  Special  326,  Elcho. 
Third  No.  80,  Engine  210,  and  Special  326  will 
meet  at  Rock  Point. 

J.  M.  C. 
D. 

With  this  meeting-point  made,  it  would  be 
pretty  much  over  in  the  despatchers*  office.  Mar 
tin  Duffy  pushed  his  sallow  hair  back  for  the  last 
time,  and,  leaving  young  Giddings  to  get  the  last 
O.  K.'s  and  the  last  Complete  on  his  trick,  got 
out  of  the  chair. 


The  Operator's  Story  275 

It  had  been  a  tremendous  day  for  Giddings,  a 
tremendous  day.  Thirty-two  Specials  on  the 
despatchers,  and  Giddings  copying  for  the  Chief. 
He  sat  down  after  Duffy,  filled  with  a  riotous  im 
portance  because  it  was  now,  in  effect,  all  up  to 
Giddings,  personally ;  at  least  until  Barnes  Tracy 
should  presently  kick  him  out  of  the  seat  of  honor 
for  the  night  trick.  Mr.  Giddings  sat  down  and 
waited  for  the  signature  of  the  orders. 

Very  soon  Pat  Francis  dropped  off  De  Molay 
Four,  slowing  at  Elcho,  ran  straight  to  the  operator 
for  his  order,  signed  it  and  at  once  Order  79 
was  throbbing  back  to  young  Giddings  at  Medicine 
Bend.  It  was  precisely  7.54  P.  M.  when  Gid 
dings  gave  back  the  Complete  and  at  7.55  Elcho 
reported  Special  326,  u  out,"  all  just  like  clockwork. 
What  a  head  Martin  Duffy  has,  thought  young 
Giddings  —  and  behold  !  all  the  complicated  ever 
lasting  headwork  of  the  trick  and  the  day,  and  of 
the  West  End  and  its  honor,  was  now  up  to  the 
signature  of  Third  Eighty  at  Rat  River.  Just 
Third  Eighty's  signature  for  the  Rock  Point  meet- 


276  Held  for  Orders 

ing,  and  the  biggest  job  ever  tackled  by  a  single- 
track  road  in  America  (Giddings  thought)  was 
done  and  well  done. 

So  the  ambitious  Giddings  by  means  of  a  pocket- 
mirror  inspected  a  threatening  pimple  on  the  end 
of  his  chubby  nose  palming  the  glass  skilfully  so 
Barnes  Tracy  could  n't  see  it  even  if  he  did  inter 
rupt  his  eruption,  and  waited  for  Bob  Duffy,  the  Rat 
River  nightman,  to  come  back  at  him  with  Third 
Eighty's  signature.  Under  Giddings'  eye,  as  he 
sat,  ticked  Martin  Duffy's  chronometer — the  watch 
that  split  the  seconds  and  chimed  the  quarters  and 
stopped  and  started  so  impossibly  and  ran  to  a  sec 
ond  a  month  —  the  watch  that  Bucks  (who  never 
did  things  by  halves)  had  given  little  Martin  Duffy 
with  the  order  that  made  him  Chief.  It  lay  at 
Giddings's  fingers,  and  the  minute  hand  wiped  from 
the  enamelled  dial  seven  o'clock  fifty-five,  fifty-six, 
seven,  eight —  nine.  Young  Giddings  turned  to  his 
order  book  and  inspected  his  entries  like  a  method 
ical  bookkeeper,  and  Martin  Duffy's  chronometer 
chimed  the  fourth  quarter,  eight  o'clock.  One 


The  Operator's  Story  277 

entry  he  had  still  to  make.  Book  in  hand  he 
called  Rat  River. 

"  Get  Third  Eighty's  signature  to  Order  79  and 
hurry  them  out,"  he  tapped  impatiently  at  Bob 
Duffy. 

There  was  a  wait.  Giddings  lighted  his  pipe 
the  way  Callahan  always  lighted  his  pipe  — 
putting  out  his  lips  to  catch  all  the  perfume  and 
blowing  the  first  cloud  away  wearily,  as  Callahan 
always  did  wearily.  Then  he  twirled  the  match 
meditatively,  and  listened,  and  got  suddenly  this 
from  Bob  Duffy  at  Rat  River  : 

u  I  forgot  Order  79,"  came  Bob  Duffy's  mes 
sage.  "  I  let  Third  Eighty  go  without  it.  They 
left  here  at  seven  —  fifty  "  — fifty  something,  Gid 
dings  never  heard  fifty  what.  The  match  went 
into  the  ink,  the  pipe  into  the  water-pail,  and  Gid 
dings,  before  Bob  Duffy  finished,  like  a  drowning 
man  was  calling  Elcho  with  the  life  and  death,  the 
Nineteen  call. 

"Hold  Special  326  !  "  he  cried  over  the  wire  the 
instant  Elcho  replied. 


278  Held  for  Orders 

But  Elcho,  steadily,  answered  this  : 

"  Special  —  Three-twenty-six  —  left  —  here  — - 
seven-fifty-five." 

Giddings,  with  both  hands  on  the  table,  raised 
up  like  a  drunken  man.  The  West  End  was 
against  it.  Third  Eighty  in  the  open  and  going 
against  the  De  Molay  Four.  Bucks,  Callahan,  wife 
—  everybody  —  and  Rock  Point  a  blind  siding  that 
no  word  from  anybody  on  earth  could  reach  ahead 
of  Third  Eighty. 

Giddings  sprang  to  the  open  window  and  shouted 
to  anybody  and  everybody  to  call  Martin  Duffy. 
But  Martin  Duffy  spoke  behind  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked  ;  it  came  ter 
ribly  quick  on  Giddings  as  he  turned. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed  Martin,  look 
ing  into  the  boy's  face.  u  Speak,  can't  you  ? 
What 's  the  matter,  Giddings  ? " 

"Bob  forgot  Order  79  and  let  Third  Eighty  go 
without  it  —  and  Special  326  is  out  of  Elcho," 
choked  Giddings. 

"What?* 


The  Operator's  Story  279 

"Bob  at — Rat  River  —  gave  Third  Eighty  a 
clearance  without  the  Order  79." 

Martin  Duffy  sprang  straight  up  in  the  air. 
Once  he  shut  his  lifted  hands ;  once  he  looked  at 
Giddings,  staggering  again  through  the  frightful 
news,  then  he  dropped  into  the  chair,  looked  wildly 
around,  seized  his  key  like  a  hunted  man,  stared  at 
his  train  sheet,  grabbed  the  order  book,  and  listened 
to  Giddings  cutting  off  one  hope  after  another  of 
stopping  Special  326,  His  fingers  set  mechani 
cally  and  he  made  the  Rat  River  call ;  but  Rat  River 
was  silent.  With  Barnes  Tracy  tiptoeing  in  be 
hind  on  the  instinct  of  trouble,  and  young  Gid 
dings  shaking  like  a  leaf,  the  Chief  called  Rat 
River.  Then  he  called  Elcho,  asked  for  Special 
326,  and  Elcho  again  repeated  steadily  : 

"  Special  —  326  —  left  —  here  —  on  —  Order  — 
79  — at  —  seven-fifty-five  P.M." 

Martin  Duffy  bent  before  the  message;  young 
Giddings,  who  had  been  whispering  to  Tracy, 
dropped  on  a  stool  and  covered  his  face. 

"Don't    cry,  Giddings."     It    was    Duffy   who 


280  Held  for  Orders 

spoke ;  dry  and  parched  his  voice.  "  It 's  nothing 
you  —  could  help."  He  looked  around  and  saw 
Tracy  at  his  elbow.  "  Barnes,"  he  said,  but  he 
tried  twice  before  his  voice  would  carry.  "  Barnes 
—  they  will  meet  in  the  Cinnamon  cut.  Giddings 
told  you?  Bob  forgot,  forgot  my  order.  Run, 
Giddings,  for  Benedict  Morgan  and  Doubleday 
and  Carhart  —  quick  !  " 

Giddings  ran,  the  Rat  River  call  echoing 
again  down  the  hall  behind  him.  Rat  River  was 
closest  to  Rock  Point  —  would  get  the  first  news 
of  the  wreck,  and  Martin  Duffy  was  calling  his 
recreant  brother  at  the  River ;  but  the  River  was 
silent. 

Doubleday  and  the  company  surgeon,  Dr.  Car- 
hart,  rushed  into  the  room  almost  together.  Then 
came  with  a  storm  the  wrecking  boss,  Benedict 
Morgan ;  it  was  only  an  evil  hour  that  brought 
Benedict  Morgan  into  the  despatchers'  office. 
Stooped  and  silent,  Martin  Duffy,  holding  the  chair, 
was  calling  Rat  River.  Carhart  watched  him  just 
a  moment,  then  he  took  Barnes  Tracy  aside  and 


The  Operator's  Story  281 

whispered  —  and,  going  back,  bent  over  Duffy. 
The  Chief  pulled  himself  up. 

u  Let  Tracy  take  the  key,"  repeated  the  doctor. 
"  Get  away  from  the  table  a  minute,  Martin.  It 
may  not  be  as  bad  as  you  think." 

Duffy,  looking  into  the  surgeon's  face,  put  his 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  It 's  the  De  Molay  train,  the 
Special  326,  with  Bucks's  car,  double-headed.  Oh, 
my  God  —  I  can't  stop  them.  Doctor,  they  will 
meet!" 

Carhart  unfastened  the  fingers  on  his  arm.  u  Come 
away  a  minute.  Let  Tracy  have  the  key,"  he  urged. 

"  A  head-ender,  eh  ?  "  croaked  Benedict  Morgan 
from  the  counter,  and  with  a  frightful  oath.  "  A 
head-ender !  " 

"  Shut  up,  you  brute  !  "  hissed  Carhart.  Duffy's 
hands  were  creeping  queerly  up  the  sides  of  his 
head. 

"kSure,"  growled  Benedict  Morgan,  loweringly, 
"  sure.  Shut  up.  Of  course.  Shut  up." 

Carhart  was  a  quick  man.  He  started  for 
the  wrecker,  but  Duffy,  springing,  stopped  him. 


282  Held  for  Orders 

"  For  God's  sake,  keep  cool,  everybody,"  he  ex. 
claimed,  piteously.  There  was  no  one  else  to  talk, 
to  give  the  orders.  Bucks  and  Callahan  both  on 
the  Special  —  maybe  past  order-giving  now.  Only 
Martin  Duffy  to  take  the  double  load  and  the  double 
shame.  He  stared,  dazed  again,  into  the  faces 
around  as  he  held  to  the  fiery  surgeon.  "  Morgan," 
he  added  steadily,  looking  at  the  surly  wrecker, 
"  get  up  your  crew,  quick.  Doubleday,  make  up 
all  the  coaches  in  the  yard  for  an  ambulance  train. 
Get  every  doctor  in  town  to  go  with  you.  Tracy, 
clear  the  line." 

The  Master  Mechanic  and  Benedict  Morgan 
clattered  down  stairs.  Carhart,  running  to  the 
telephone,  told  Central  to  summon  every  medical 
man  in  the  Bend,  and  hurried  out.  Before  he  had 
covered  a  block,  roundhouse  callers,  like  flaws  of 
wind  before  a  storm,  were  scurrying  the  streets, 
and  from  the  tower  of  the  fire-house  sounded  the 
harsh  clang  of  the  emergency  gong  for  the  wreckers. 

Caught  where  they  could  be  caught,  out  of 
saloons,  beds,  poker  joints,  Salvation  barracks, 


The  Operator's  Story  283 

churches,  —  the  men  of  the  wrecking  crew  ran 
down  the  silent  streets,  waking  now  fast  into  life. 
Congregations  were  dispersed,  hymns  cut,  prayers 
forgotten,  bars  deserted,  hells  emptied,  barracks 
raided  at  that  call,  the  emergency  gong  call,  fell  as  a 
fire-bell,  for  the  Mountain  Division  wrecking  gang. 

While  the  yard  crews  shot  up  and  down  the 
spurs  switching  coaches  into  the  relief  train,  Bene 
dict  Morgan  with  solid  volleys  of  oaths  was  or 
ganizing  his  men  and  filling  them  at  the  lunch 
counters  with  huge  schooners  of  coffee.  Car- 
hart  pushed  again  through  the  jam  of  men  and  up 
to  the  despatchers'  office.  Before  and  behind  him 
crowded  the  local  physicians  with  instrument  bags 
and  bandages.  The  ominous  baggage  deposited 
on  the  office  floor,  they  sat  down  about  the  room  or 
hovered  around  Carhart  asking  for  details.  Double- 
day,  tall  and  grim,  came  over  from  the  roundhouse. 
Benedict  Morgan  stamped  up  from  the  yard  —  the 
Mountain  Division  was  ready. 

All  three  despatchers  were  in  the  room.  John 
Mailers,  the  day  man,  stood  near  Tracy,  who  had 


284  Held  for  Orders 

relieved  Giddings.  The  line  was  clear  for  the 
relief  run.  Elcho  had  been  notified  of  the  impend 
ing  disaster,  and  at  Tracy's  elbow  sat  the  Chief 
looking  fixedly  at  the  key  —  taking  the  bob  of 
the  sounder  with  his  eye.  A  dozen  men  in  the 
room  were  talking ;  but  they  spoke  as  men  who 
speaking  wait  on  the  life  of  a  fuse.  Duffy,  with 
suspense  deepening  into  frenzy,  pushed  Tracy's 
hand  from  the  key  and,  sliding  into  the  chair, 
began  once  more  to  call  his  brother  at  Rat  River. 

«R,T  — R,T  — R,T  — R,T  — "  clicked  the 
River  call.  "  R,  T  —  R,  T  —  R,  T  —  Bob  —  Bob 
—  Bob,"  spelled  the  sender.  "  Answer  me,  an 
swer,  answer.  R,  T  —  R,  T  —  R,  T  —  R,  T  —  " 

And  Barnes  Tracy  edged  away  and  leaned  back 
to  where  the  shadow  hid  his  face.  And  John 
Mailers,  turning  from  the  pleading  of  the  current, 
stared  gloomily  out  of  the  window  across  the  yard 
shimmering  under  the  double  relay  of  arc  lights; 
and  young  Giddings,  who  couldn't  stand  it — just 
couldn't  stand  it  —  bending  on  his  stool,  shook 
with  gulping  sobs. 


The  Operator's  Story  285 

The  others  knew  nothing  of  the  heartbreaking 
in  the  little  clicks.  But  they  all  knew  the  track  — 
knew  where  the  trains  would  meet;  knew  they 
could  not  by  any  possibility  see  each  other  till  they 
whirled  together  on  the  curve  of  the  Cinnamon 
cut  or  on  the  trestle  west  of  it  and  they  waited 
only  for  the  breaking  of  the  suspense  that  settled 
heavily  over  them. 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  forty  minutes  went,  with 
Martin  Duffy  at  intervals  vainly  calling.  Then 
—  as  the  crack  opens  in  the  field  of  ice,  as  the 
snow  breaks  in  the  mountain  slide,  as  the  sea 
gives  up  at  last  its  dead,  the  sounder  spoke  —  Rat 
River  made  the  despatcher's  call.  And  Martin 
Duffy,  staring  at  the  copper  coil,  pushed  himself 
up  in  his  chair  like  a  man  that  chokes,  caught 
smothering  at  his  neck,  and  slipped  wriggling  to 
the  floor. 

Carhart  caught  him  up,  but  Duffy's  eyes  stared 
meaningless  past  him.  Rat  River  was  calling  him, 
but  Martin  Duffy  was  past  the  taking.  Like  the 
man  next  at  the  gun,  Barnes  Tracy  sprang  into  the 


286  Held  for  Orders 

chair  with  the  I,  I,  D.  The  surgeon,  Giddings 
helping,  dragged  Duffy  to  the  lounge  in  Callahan's 
room  —  his  Chief  was  more  to  Giddings  then  than 
the  fate  of  Special  326.  But  soon  confused  voices 
began  to  ring  from  where  men  were  crowding  around 
the  despatchers'  table.  They  echoed  in  to  where  the 
doctors  worked  over  the  raving  Chief.  And  young 
Giddings,  helping,  began,  too,  to  hear  strange  things 
from  the  other  room. 

"  The  moon  —  " 

"  The  moon  ?  " 

"The  MOON!" 


Barnes  Tracy  was  trying  to  make  himself  heard: 

"  The  moon,  damn  it  !  MOON  !  That  's  Eng 
lish,  ain't  it  ?  Moon." 

"Who's  talking  at  Rat  River?"  demanded 
Benedict  Morgan,  hoarsely. 

"  Chick  Neale,  conductor  of  Third  Eighty;  their 
train  is  back  at  Rat  River.  God  bless  that  man," 
stammered  Barnes  Tracy,  wiping  his  forehead  fev 
erishly  ;  "  he  's  an  old  operator.  He  says  Bob  Duffy 


The  Operator's  Story          287 

is  missing  —  tell  Martin,  quick,  there  is  n't  any 
wreck  —  quick  !  " 

"  What  does  Neale  say  ?  "  cried  Doubleday  with 
an  explosion. 

Tracy  thought  he  had  told  them,  but  he 
had  n't.  "  He  says  his  engineer,  Abe  Monsoon, 
was  scared  by  the  moon  rising  just  as  they  cleared 
Kennel  Butte,"  explained  Tracy  unsteadily.  "  He 
took  it  for  the  headlight  of  Special  326  and  jumped 
from  his  engine.  The  fireman  backed  the  train  to 
Rat  River— see?" 

While  Tracy  talked,  Mailers  at  the  key  was  get 
ting  it  all.  "  Look  here,"  he  exclaimed,  "  did  you 
ever  hear  of  such  a  mix-up  in  your  life  ?  The  head 
brakeman  of  the  freight  was  in  the  cab,  Neale  says. 
He  and  the  engineer  were  talking  about  the  last 
Conclave  train,  wondering  where  they  were  going  to 
meet  it,  when  the  brakeman  spied  the  moon  coming 
up  around  Kennel  Butte  curve.  c  There 's  the  326 
Special !  '  he  yelled,  and  lighted  out  the  gangway. 
Monsoon  reversed  and  jumped  off  after  him  so  quick 
he  knocked  the  fireman  over  in  the  coal.  When 


288  Held  for  Orders 

the  fireman  got  up  —  he  had  n't  heard  a  word  of 
it  all  —  he  could  n't  see  anything  ahead  but  the 
moon.  So  he  stops  the  train  and  backs  up  for  the 
two  guys.  When  Neale  and  he  picked  them  up 
they  ran  right  back  to  Rat  River  for  orders.  They 
never  got  to  Rock  Point  at  all  —  why,  they  never 
got  two  miles  east  of  Rat  River." 

u  And  where  's  Special  326  ?  "  cried  Doubleday. 

u  At  Rock  Point,  you  loco.  She  must  be  there 
and  waiting  yet  for  Third  Eighty.  The  stopping 
of  the  freight  gave  her  plenty  of  time  to  make  the 
meeting-point,  don't  you  see,  and  there  she  is  — 
sweating  —  yet.  Neale  is  an  old  operator.  By 
Heaven  !  Give  me  a  man  of  the  key  against  the 
the  world.  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow  ! " 

"  Then  there  is  n't  to  be  any  wreck  ?  "  ven 
tured  a  shy  little  lady  homeopathic  physician,  who 
had  been  crimped  into  the  fray  to  help  do  up  the 
mangled  Knights  and  was  modestly  waiting  her 
opportunity. 

"  Not   to-night,"    announced    Tracy    with    the 


The  Operator's  Story  289 

dignity  of  a  man  temporarily  in  charge  of  the  en 
tire  division. 

A  yell  went  out  of  the  room  like  a  tidal  wave. 
Doubleday  and  Benedict  Morgan  had  not  spoken 
to  each  other  since  the  night  of  the  roundhouse 
fire  —  that  was  two  years.  They  turned  wonder- 
struck  to  each  other.  Doubleday  impulsively  put 
out  his  hand  and,  before  he  could  pull  it  in  again, 
the  wrecking  boss  grabbed  it  like  a  pay  check. 
Carhart,  who  was  catching  the  news  from  the 
rattle  of  young  Giddings,  went  wild  trying  to  re 
peat  it  to  Duffy  without  losing  it  in  his  throat. 
The  Chief  was  opening  his  eyes,  trying  to  under 
stand. 

Medical  men  of  violently  differing  schools,  allo 
paths,  homeopaths,  osteopaths,  eclectics  —  made 
their  peace  with  a  whoop.  A  red-headed  druggist, 
who  had  rung  himself  in  for  a  free  ride  to  the  hor 
ror,  threw  his  emergency  packets  into  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  The  doctors  caught  the  impulse : 
instrument  cases  were  laid  with  solemn  tenderness 
on  the  heap,  and  a  dozen  crazy  men,  joining  hands 
19 


290  Held  for  Orders 

around  the  pyred  saws  and  gauze,  struck  up  u  Old 
Hundred." 

Engineer  Monsoon  was  a  new  man,  who  had 
been  over  the  division  only  twice  before  in  his  life, 
both  times  in  daylight.  For  that  emergency  Abe 
Monsoon  was  the  man  of  all  others,  because  it  takes 
more  than  an  ordinary  moon  to  scare  a  thorough 
bred  West  End  engineer.  But  Monsoon  and  his 
moon  headlight  had  between  them  saved  De  Molay 
Four  from  the  scrap. 

The  relief  arrangements  and  Monsoon's  head 
light  were  the  fun  of  it,  but  there  was  more. 
Martin  Duffy  lay  eleven  weeks  with  brain  fever 
before  they  could  say  moon  again  to  him.  Bob 
had  skipped  into  the  mountains  in  the  very  hour 
that  he  had  disgraced  himself.  He  has  never 
shown  up  at  Medicine  since ;  but  Martin  is  still 
Chief,  and  they  think  more  of  him  on  the  Moun 
tain  district  than  ever. 

Bucks  got  the  whole  thing  when  De  Molay  Four 
reached  Rat  River  that  night.  Bucks  and  Calla- 
han  and  Moore  and  Oyster  and  Pat  Francis  got 


The  Operator's  Story          291 

it  and  smiled  grimly.  Nobody  else  on  Special  326 
even  dreamed  of  leaving  a  bone  that  Sunday 
night  in  the  Cinnamon  cut.  All  the  rest  of  the 
evening  Bucks  smiled  just  the  same  at  the  Knights 
and  the  Knightesses,  and  they  thought  him  for  a 
bachelor  wonderfully  entertaining. 

A  month  later,  when  the  old  boys  more  or  less 
ragged  came  straggling  back  from  'Frisco,  Bucks's 
crowd  stayed  over  a  train,  and  he  told  his  Penn 
sylvania  cronies  what  they  had  slipped  through  in 
that  delay  at  Rock  Point. 

"Just  luck,"  laughed  one  of  the  Eastern  super 
intendents,  who  wore  on  his  watch  chain  an  enor 
mous  Greek  cross  with  "  Our  Trust  is  in  God  " 
engraved  on  it.  "  Just  luck,"  he  laughed, "  was  n't 
it?" 

u  Maybe,"  murmured  Bucks,  looking  through 
the  Wickiup  window  at  the  Teton  peaks.  u  That 
is  —  you  might  call  it  that  —  back  on  the  Penn. 
Out  here  I  guess  they  'd  call  it,  Just  God." 


Held    for    Orders 


The  Trainmaster's  Story 


OF   THE  OLD   GUARD 


The  Trainmaster's  Story 


OF  THE   OLD   GUARD 

I   NEVER    found    it  very    hard    to    get    into 
trouble :   as   far  back   as   I   can    remember 
that  has  come  dead  easy  for  me. 
When  this  happened  I  had  n't  been  railroading 
a  month  and  I  was  up  with  my  conductor  on  the 
carpet,  sweating  from  sheer  grogginess  and  excite 
ment.      The  job    of  front-end    brakeman    on    a 
mountain  division   is  no  great    stake    for  a   man 
ordinarily,  but  it  was  one  for  me,  just  then.     We 
knew  when  we  went  into  the  superintendent's  office 
that  somebody  was  to  get  fired  ;    the  only  ques 
tion  was,  who  ?  —  the  train  crew  or  the  operator  ? 
Our  engine  crew  were  out  of  it ;  it  was  up  to  the 


296  Held  for  Orders 

conductor  and  to  me.  Had  the  operator  displayed 
red  signals  ?  The  conductor  said,  no ;  I  said,  no  ; 
the  operator  said,  yes  :  but  he  lied.  We  could  n't 
prove  it ;  we  could  only  put  our  word  against  his  : 
and  what  made  it  the  worse  for  me,  my  conductor 
was  something  of  a  liar  himself. 

I  stood  beading  in  a  cold  sweat  for  I  could  see 
with  half  an  eye  it  was  going  against  us ;  the 
superintendent,  an  up-and-up  railroad  man  every 
inch  and  all  business,  but  suspicious,  was  leaning 
the  operator's  way  the  strongest  kind. 

There  wasn't  another  soul  in  the  little  room  as 
the  three  of  us  stood  before  the  superintendent's 
desk  except  a  passenger  conductor,  who  sat  behind 
me  with  his  feet  on  the  window  ledge,  looking  out 
into  the  yard. 

"  Morrison's  record  in  this  office  is  clean,"  the 
superintendent  was  saying  of  the  operator,  who 
was  doing  us  smooth  as  smokeless  powder,  "he 
has  never  to  my  knowledge  lied  in  an  investiga 
tion.  But,  Allbers,"  continued  the  superinten 
dent  speaking  bluntly  to  my  conductor,  "you've 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        297 

never  told  a  straight  story  about  that  Rat  River 
switch  matter  yet.  This  man  is  a  new  man,"  he 
added,  throwing  a  hard  look  at  me.  "  Ordinarily 
I  'd  be  inclined  to  take  the  word  of  two  men 
against  one,  but  I  don't  know  one  at  all  and  the 
other  has  done  me  once.  I  can't  see  anything  for 
it  but  to  take  Morrison's  word  and  let  you  fellows 
both  out.  There  was  n't  any  wreck,  but  that 's 
not  your  fault ;  not  for  a  minute.'*' 

"  Mr.  Rocksby,"  I  protested,  speaking  up  to 
the  division  boss  in  a  clean  funk  —  the  prospect  of 
losing  my  job  that  way,  through  a  lying  operator, 
took  the  heart  clean  out  of  me  —  "  you  don't  know 
me,  it  is  true,  but  I  pledge  you  my  word  of 
honor  —  " 

u  What 's  your  word  of  honor  ?  "  asked  the 
superintendent,  cutting  into  me  like  a  hatchet,  u  I 
don't  know  any  more  about  your  word  of  honor 
than  I  do  about  you." 

What  could  I  say  ?  There  were  men  who  did 
know  me,  but  they  were  a  long  cry  from  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  the  headquarters  of  the  Mountain 


298  Held  for  Orders 

Division.  I  glanced  about  me  from  his  face,  gray 
as  alkali,  to  Allbers,  shuffling  on  the  carpet,  and 
to  Morrison,  as  steady  as  a  successful  liar,  taking 
my  job  and  my  reputation  at  one  swallow  ;  and 
to  the  passenger  conductor  with  the  glossy  black 
whiskers;  but  he  was  looking  out  the  window. 
"  What  do  I  know  about  your  word  of  honor  ?  " 
repeated  Rocksby  sharply.  "Allbers,  take  your 
man  and  get  your  time." 

A  wave  of  helpless  rage  swept  over  me.  The 
only  thing  I  could  think  of,  was  strangling  the 
lying  operator  in  the  hall.  Then  somebody  spoke. 
u  Show  your  papers,  you  damn  fool." 
It  came  calm  as  sunshine  and  cold  as  a  north 
wester  from  the  passenger  conductor  behind  me, 
from  Dave  Hawk,  and  it  pulled  me  into  line  like 
a  bugle  call.  I  felt  my  English  all  back  at  once. 
Everybody  heard  him  and  looked  my  way;  again 
it  was  up  to  me.  This  time  I  was  ready  for  the 
superintendent,  or  for  that  matter  for  the  blooming 
Mountain  Division.  I  had  forgot  all  about  my 
papers  till  Dave  Hawk  spoke.  I  put  my  hand, 


The  Trainmaster's  Story 

shaking,  into  my  inside  vest  pocket  for  a  piece  of 
oilskin  —  it  was  all  I  had  left ;  I  was  a  good  way 
from  my  base  that  year.  I  laid  the  oilskin  on  the 
superintendent's  table,  unfolded  it  jealously  and 
took  out  a  medal  and  a  letter,  that  in  spite  of 
the  carefullest  wrapping  was  creased  and  sweated. 
But  the  letter  was  from  my  captain  and  the  bit  of 
bronze  was  the  Cross.  Rocksby  picked  up  the 
letter  and  read  it. 

u  Have  you  been  in  the  British  Army  ? "  he 
asked  curtly. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

He  scowled  a  minute  over  Picton's  scrawl,  laid 
it  down  and  gratified  his  curiosity  by  picking  up 
the  medal.  He  studied  the  face  of  the  token, 
looked  curiously  at  the  dingy  red  ribbon,  twirled  it 
and  saw  the  words  on  the  reverse,  "For  Valour," 
and  looked  again  at  me. 

"  Where  'd  you  get  this  ?  "  he  asked  indicating 
the  Victoria. 

u  In  the  Soudan,  sir." 

Dave  Hawk  kept  right  on  looking  out  the  win- 


300  Held  for  Orders 

dow.  Neither  my  conductor  nor  the  operator 
seemed  to  know  just  what  the  row  was.  Nobody 
spoke. 

"  What*  you  doing  here  ? "  Rocksby  went  on. 

"  I  came  out  to  learn  the  cattle  business."  His 
brows  went  up  easy-like.  "  They  cleaned  me  out." 
Brows  dropped  gentle-like.  "  Then  I  went  bad 
with  mountain-fever,"  and  he  looked  decent  at  me. 

"  You  say  you  had  your  head  out  the  cupola  and 
saw  the  white  signal  ?  "  he  asked,  sort  of  puzzled. 

u  I  saw  the  white  signal."  Rocksby  looked  at 
the  operator  Morrison. 

"  We  '11  adjourn  this  thing,"  said  he  at  last,  "  till 
I  look  into  it  a  little  further.  For  the  present,  go 
back  to  your  runs." 

We  never  heard  any  more  of  it.  A  libers  got 
out  quick.  I  waited  to  pick  up  my  stuff  and 
turned  to  thank  Dave  Hawk;  he  was  gone. 

It  was  n't  the  first  time  Dave  had  pulled  me  out 
of  the  water.  About  two  weeks  before  that  I  had 
crawled  one  night  up  on  the  front  platform  of  the 
baggage  at  Peace  River  to  steal  a  ride  to  Medicine 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        301 

Bend  on  Number  One.  It  was  Dave's  train.  I 
had  been  kicked  out  of  the  McCloud  hospital  two 
days  before  without  a  cent,  or  a  friend  on  earth 
outside  the  old  country,  and  I  had  n't  a  mind  to 
bother  the  folks  at  home  any  more,  come  Conan 
or  the  devil. 

The  night  was  bitter  bad,  black  as  a  Fuzzy  and 
sleeting  out  of  the  foothills  like  manslaughter. 
When  the  train  stopped  at  Rosebud  for  water, 
what  with  gripping  the  icy  hand-rail  and  trying 
to  keep  my  teeth  steady  on  my  knees  I  must  have 
been  a  hard  sight.  Just  as  the  train  was  ready  to 
pull  out,  Dave  came  by  and  poked  his  lantern  full 
in  my  face. 

He  was  an  older  man  than  I,  a  good  bit  older, 
for  I  was  hardly  more  than  a  kid  then,  only  spin 
dling  tall,  and  so  thin  I  could  n't  tell  a  stomach 
ache  from  a  back  ache.  As  I  sat  huddled  down 
on  the  lee  step  with  my  cap  pulled  over  my  head 
and  ears,  he  poked  his  light  full  into  my  face  and 
snapped,  "  Get  out  !  " 

If  it  had  been  a  headlight  I  could  n't  have  been 


302  Held  for  Orders 

worse  scared,  and  I  found  afterward  he  carried  the 
brightest  lamp  on  the  division.  I  looked  up  into, 
his  face  and  he  looked  into  mine.  I  wonder  if  in 
this  life  it  is  n't  mostly  in  the  face  after  all  ? 
I  could  n't  say  anything,  I  was  shaking  in  a  chill 
as  I  pulled  myself  together  and  climbed  down  into 
the  storm. 

Yet  I  never  saw  a  face  harder  in  some  ways  than 
Dave  Hawk's.  His  visor  hid  his  forehead  and  a 
blackbeard  covered  his  face  till  it  left  only  his  straight 
cold  nose  and  a  dash  of  olive  white  under  the  eyes. 
His  whiskers  loomed  high  as  a  Cossack's  and  his 
eyes  were  onyx  black  with  just  such  a  glitter.  He 
knew  it  was  no  better  than  murder  to  put  me  off 
in  that  storm  at  a  mountain  siding :  I  knew  it ; 
but  I  did  n't  much  care  for  I  knew  before  very 
long  I  should  fall  off,  anyway.  After  I  crawled 
down  he  stood  looking  at  me,  and  with  nothing 
better  on  I  stood  looking  at  him. 

"  If  you  get  up  there  again  I  '11  break  your 
neck,"  he  promised,  holding  up  his  lantern.  I 
was  quiet ;  the  nerve  was  out  of  me. 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        303 

"  Where  you  going  ?  "  he  asked  shortly, 

u  Medicine  Ben " 

u  Get  into  the  smoker,  you  damn  fool." 

How  it  galvanized  me.  For  twenty-four  hours 
I  had  n't  eaten.  I  was  just  out  of  a  hospital  bed 
and  six  weeks  of  mountain  fever,  but  I  braced  at 
his  words  like  a  Sioux  buck.  I  hurried  back  ahead 
of  him  to  the  smoking  car,  drenched  wet,  and 
tough,  I  know.  I  looked  so  tough  that  the  brake- 
man  grabbed  me  the  minute  I  opened  the  frontdoor 
and  tried  to  kick  me  out.  I  turned  snarling  then, 
crazy  as  a  wolf  all  in  a  second,  and  somehow 
backed  the  brakeman  against  the  water  cooler  with 
his  windpipe  twisted  in  my  bony  fingers  like 
a  corkscrew.  The  train  was  moving  out.  I  had 
been  cuffed  and  kicked  till  I  would  rather  kill 
somebody  than  not ;  this  seemed  a  fair  chance  for  a 
homicide.  When  the  poor  fellow's  wind  went 
off — he  wasn't  much  of  a  scrapper,  I  fancy  — 
he  whipped  around  in  the  aisle  like  a  dying 
rooster.  As  he  struggled  in  my  grip  there  be 
hind  him  in  the  doorway  stood  Dave,  lantern  in 


304  Held  for  Orders 

hand,  looking  on  with  a  new  face.  This  time  ht 
was  smiling  —  Dave's  smile  meant  just  the  parting 
of  his  lips  over  a  row  of  glistening  teeth ;  per 
fectly  even  teeth  and  under  his  black  mustache 
whiter  than  ivory.  It  appeared  to  amuse  him  to 
see  me  killing  the  brakeman.  The  instant  I  saw 
Dave  I  let  go  and  he  watched  the  crestfallen  train 
man  pull  himself  together. 

u  Guess  you  '11  let  him  alone  now,  won't  you  ?  " 
said  Dave  pleasantly  to  my  rattled  assailant.  "  Sit 
down,"  he  growled  harshly  at  me,  stringing  his 
lantern  on  his  arm.  He  walked  unconcernedly 
down  the  aisle,  and  I  dropped  exhausted  into 
the  front  seat  facing  the  Baker  heater.  It  was 
heavenly  hot;  red  hot.  I  have  loved  a  car  heater 
ever  since,  and  Baker  to  me,  is  hardly  lower 
than  the  angels.  My  togs  began  to  steam,  my 
blood  began  to  flow,  the  train  boy  gave  me  a 
wormy  apple,  an  Irishman  with  a  bottle  of  rank 
whiskey  gave  me  a  stinger  and  I  wanted  to  live 
again.  I  curled  up  in  the  seat  and  in  five  minutes 
I  was  roasting,  oh,  such  a  heavenly  roast ;  and 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        305 

dozing,  Lord  !  what  a  heavenly  doze,  before  that 
Baker  heater.  All  night  the  forward  truck  beat 
and  pounded  under  me  :  all  night  I  woke  and  slept 
in  the  steaming,  stinking  air  of  the  hot  car.  And 
whenever  I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  always  the  same 
thing,  a  topping  tall  conductor  looming  in  the 
aisle,  his  green-hooded  lamp,  like  a  semaphore 
under  his  arm.  And  above,  in  the  gloom,  a  bush 
of  black  beard  and  a  pair  of  deep-set,  shining  eyes 
back  under  a  peaked  cap.  Dave  often  comes  back 
as  I  saw  him,  waking  and  dreaming,  that  night  in 
the  smoker  of  Number  One. 

It  was  breaking  day  when  he  bent  over  me. 

"We're  getting  into  the  Bend,"  he  said  gruffly. 
u  Got  any  money  for  breakfast  ?  " 

"I  haven't  a  cent  on  God's  earth."  He  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulling  out  a  handful  of 
loose  bills  shoved  one  into  my  fingers. 

"  I  '11  take  it  from  you  and  gladly,"  I  said  sitting 
up.  "  But  I  'm  not  a  beggar  nor  a  tramp." 

"Off  track?" 

20 


306  Held  for  Orders 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  enlist — "  His  teeth 
flashed.  "  That 's  worse  than  railroading,  ain't  it  ?  " 
Something  came  into  my  head  like  a  rocket. 

"  If  I  could  get  started  railroading " 

"  Get  started  easy  enough." 

That  's  how  I  happened  to  show  him  my  Vic 
toria.  He  gave  me  a  card  to  the  trainmaster,  and 
next  day  I  went  to  braking  for  Allbers,  who,  by 
the  way,  was  the  biggest  liar  I  ever  knew. 

But  the  morning  I  got  into  Medicine  Bend  that 
first  time  on  Number  One  I  had  another  scare.  I 
went  into  the  lunch  room  for  coffee  and  sand 
wiches  and  threw  my  bill  at  the  boy.  He  opened 
it,  looked  at  it  and  looked  at  me. 

"Well,"  I  growled,  for  I  was  impudent  with 
tuck  and  a  hot  stomach.  "Good,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Smallest  you  got  ?  " 

I  nodded  as  if  I  had  a  pocket  full.  He  hustled 
around  and  came  back  with  a  handful  of  money. 
I  said  nothing  but  when  he  spread  it  out  before 
me  I  sat  paralysed.  I  had  just  assumed  that  Dave 
had  given  me  a  dollar.  Sinkers,  deducting  the 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        307 

price  of  two  coffees  and  stx  sandwiches  from  the 
bill  counted  out  nineteen  dollars  and  thirty  cents 
for  me. 

That  change  kept  me  running  for  a  month,  and 
after  my  first  pay  day  I  hunted  up  Dave  to  pay 
him  back.  I  found  him  in  the  evening.  He  was 
sitting  alone  on  the  eating-house  porch,  his  feet  up 
against  the  rail,  looking  at  the  mountains  in  the 
sunset. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  as  I  held  out  a  twenty 
dollar  bill  and  tried  to  speak  my  little  piece. 
He  did  not  move  except  to  wave  back  my 
hand. 

«  Oh,  but  I  can't  let  you  do  that "  I  pro 
tested. 

"  Put  up  your  money,  Tommie."  He  called 
me  Tommie. 

"  No,"  he  repeated  putting  by  my  hand  ;  his 
face  set  hard,  and  when  Dave's  face  did  set  it  set 
stony.  "  Put  up  your  money  ;  you  don't  owe  me 
anything.  I  stole  it." 

It  was  a  queer  deal  out  on  the  West  End  in 


308  Held  for  Orders 

those  days.  It  was  a  case  of  wide  open  from  the 
river  to  the  Rockies.  Everybody  on  the  line  from 
the  directors  to  the  car-tinks  were  giving  the  com 
pany  the  worst  of  it.  The  section  hands  hooked 
the  ties  for  the  maintenance,  the  painters  drank  the 
alcohol  for  the  shellac,  the  purchasing  agent  had 
more  fast  horses  than  we  had  locomotives,  and 
what  made  it  discouraging  for  the  conductors,  the 
auditors  stole  what  little  money  the  boys  did  turn 
in. 

A  hard  place  to  begin  railroading  the  old  line 
was  then :  but  that 's  where  I  had  to  tackle  the 
game,  and  in  all  the  hard  crowd  I  mixed  with 
Dave  Hawk  was  the  only  big  man  on  the  division. 
There  were  others  there  who  fixed  the  thing  up 
by  comparing  notes  on  their  collections  and  turn 
ing  in  percentages  to  make  their  reports  look  right. 
But  Dave  was  not  a  conspirator;  never  made  a 
confidant  of  any  man  in  his  stealing  or  his  spend 
ing,  and  despised  their  figuring.  He  did  as  he 
pleased  and  cared  for  no  one ;  no  superior  had  any 
terror  for  Dave.  He  had  a  wife  somewhere  back 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        309 

east  of  the  river,  they  said,  that  had  sold  him  out  — 
that's  why  he  was  in  the  mountains — and  he 
lived  among  free  and  easy  men  a  lonely  life.  If 
anybody  ever  got  close  to  him,  I  think  maybe  I 
did,  though  I  was  still  only  a  freight  conductor 
when  the  lightning  struck  the  division. 

It  came  with  a  clean  sweep  through  the  general 
offices  at  the  River.  Everybody  in  the  auditing 
department,  the  executive  heads  down  to  general 
manager  and  a  whole  raft  of  East  End  conductors. 
It  was  a  shake-out  from  top  to  bottom,  and  the 
bloods  on  our  division  went  white  and  sickly  very 
fast. 

Of  course  it  was  somebody's  gain.  When  the 
heads  of  our  passenger  conductors  began  to  drop, 
they  began  setting  up  freight  men.  Rocksby  had 
resigned  a  year  earlier,  and  Haverly,  his  successor, 
an  ex-despatcher  and  as  big  a  knave  as  there  was 
on  the  pay  roll,  let  the  men  out  right  and  left 
with  the  sole  idea  of  saving  his  own  scalp.  By 
the  time  I  was  put  up  to  a  passenger  train  the  old 
force  was  pretty  much  cleared  out  except  Dave. 


310  Held  for  Orders 

Every  day  almost,  we  looked  to  see  him  go. 
Everybody  loved  him  because  he  was  a  master 
railroad  man,  and  everybody  except  Dave  himself 
was  apprehensive  about  his  future.  He  moved  on 
just  the  same,  calm  and  cold  as  icewater,  taking 
the  same  old  chances,  reckless  of  everything  and 
everybody.  I  never  knew  till  afterward,  but  the 
truth  was  Haverly  with  all  his  bluff  talk  was  just 
enough  afraid  of  Dave  Hawk  to  want  to  let  him 
alone.  The  matter,  though,  focused  one  day  up  in 
the  old  office  in  an  unexpected  way. 

Haverly's  own  seat  got  so  hot  that  bedeviled  by 
his  fears  of  losing  it  and  afraid  to  discharge  Dave, 
who  now  sailed  up  and  down  the  line  reckless 
as  any  pirate  of  the  Spanish  Main,  he  cowered, 
called  Dave  into  the  little  room  at  the  Wickiup 
and  asked  him  to  resign.  In  all  the  storm  that 
raged  on  the  division  the  old  conductor  alone  had 
remained  calm.  Every  day  it  was  somebody's 
head  off;  every  night  a  new  alarm;  Dave  alone 
ignored  it  all.  He  was,  through  it  all,  the  shining 
mark,  the  daredevil  target ;  yet  he  bore  a  charmed 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        311 

life  and  survived  every  last  associate.  Then 
Haverly  asked  him  to  resign.  Dave,  bitter  angry, 
faced  him  with  black  words  in  his  throat. 

"  It 's  come  to  a  showdown,"  muttered  the 
superintendent  uneasily  after  a  minute's  talking. 
u  Do  you  want  to  resign  ?  " 

Dave  eyed  the  mountains  coldly.     u  No." 

"  You  '11  have  to  —  " 

"  Have  to  ?  "  Hawk  whirled  dark  as  a  storm. 
"  Have  to  ?  Who  says  so  ?  " 

The  superintendent  shifted  the  paperweight  on 
the  desk  uncomfortably. 

"  Why  should  I  resign  ?  "  demanded  the  old 
conductor  angrily.  "  Resign  ? "  He  rose  from 
his  chair.  "  You  know  I  'm  a  thief.  You  're 
a  thief  yourself.  You  helped  make  me  one.  I  've 
carried  more  men  for  you  than  for  anybody  else 
on  the  whole  division.  I  don't  resign  for  anybody. 
Discharge  me,  damn  you.  I  don't  ask  any  odds 
of  you." 

Haverly  met  it  sullenly,  yet  he  did  n't  dare  do 
anything.  He  knew  Dave  could  ruin  him  any 


312  Held  for  Orders 

day  he  chose  to  open  his  mouth.  What  he  did 
not  know  was  that  Dave  Hawk  was  molded  in  a 
class  of  men  different  from  his  own.  Even  dis 
honor  was  safe  in  the  hands  of  Dave  Hawk. 

There  was  no  change  after,  except  that  darker, 
moodier,  lonelier  than  ever,  Dave  moved  along  on 
his  runs,  the  last  of  the  Old  Guard.  Better  railroad 
man  than  he  never  took  a  train  out  of  division. 
Stress  of  wind  or  stress  of  weather,  storm,  flood  or 
blockade,  Dave  Hawk's  trains  came  and  went  on 
time  or  very  close.  So  he  rode,  grim  old  priva 
teer,  with  his  letters  of  marque  on  the  company's 
strongbox,  and  Haverly  trembled  night  and  day  till 
that  day  came  that  fear  had  foretold  to  him.  A 
clap  of  thunder  struck  the  Wickiup  and  Haverly's 
head  fell  low ;  and  Dave  Hawk  sailed  boldly  on. 

I  was  extra  passenger  man  when  John  Stanley 
Bucks  took  the  West  End.  He  came  from  south 
of  our  country,  and  we  heard  great  things  about 
the  new  superintendent  and  about  what  would 
happen  as  soon  as  he  got  into  the  saddle.  What 
few  of  the  old  men  in  the  Wickiup  were  left 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        3 1 3 

looked  at  Bucks  just  once  and  began  to  arrange 
their  temporal  affairs.  His  appearance  bore  out 
his  reputation.  Only,  everybody  while  pretty 
clear  in  his  own  mind  as  to  what  he  would  do  — 
that  is,  as  to  what  he  would  have  to  do  —  won 
dered  what  Dave  would  do. 

He  and  Bucks  met.  I  could  n't  for  the  life  of 
me  help  thinking  when  they  struck  hands,  this 
grizzled  mountaineer  and  this  contained,  strong, 
soldierly  executive  who  had  come  to  command  us, 
of  another  meeting,  I  once  saw  when  I  carried 
Crook  out  on  a  special  and  watched  him  at  Bear 
Dance  strike  hands  with  the  last  of  the  big  fight 
ing  chiefs  of  the  mountain  Sioux. 

For  three  months  Bucks  sat  his  new  saddle 
without  a  word  or  an  act  to  show  what  he  was 
thinking  :  then  there  came  from  the  little  room  a 
general  order  that  swept  right  and  left  from  train 
master  to  wrecking  boss.  The  last  one  of  the  old 
timers  in  the  operating  department  went  except 
Dave  Hawk. 

The  day  the  order  was  bulletined   Bucks  sent 


314  Held  for  Orders 

for  Dave;    sent  word    by  me  he  wanted    to    sec 

him. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Dave  to  me  when  I  gave  him 
the  message. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  for  ?  " 

"  Come  on,"  he  repeated,  and,  greatly  against 
my  inclination,  I  went  up  with  him.  I  looked  for 
a  scene. 

u  Dave,  you  've  been  running  here  a  good  while, 
haven't  you  ?  "  Bucks  began. 

"  Long  as  anybody,  I  guess,"  said  Dave  curtly. 

u  How  many  years  ?  " 

"  Nineteen." 

"  There  's  been  some  pretty  lively  shake-outs 
on  the  system  lately,"  continued  Bucks ;  the 
veteran  conductor  looked  at  him  coldly.  "  I  am 
trying  to  shape  things  here  for  an  entire  new  deal." 

"  Don't  let  me  stand  in  your  way,"  returned 
Dave  grimly. 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  see  you  about." 

"  It  need  n't  take  long,"  blurted  Dave. 

«  Then  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  want " 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        3 1 5 

a  I  don't  resign.  You  can  discharge  me  any 
minute." 

"  I  would  n't  ask  any  man  to  resign,  Dave,  if 
I  wanted  to  discharge  him.  Don't  make  a  mis 
take  like  that.  I  suppose  you  will  admit  there 's 
room  for  improvement  in  the  running  of  this 
division  ?  " 

Dave  never  twitched.  "  A  whole  lot  of  im 
provement,"  Bucks,  with  perceptible  emphasis, 
added.  It  came  from  the  new  superintendent  as  a 
sort  of  gauntlet  and  Dave  picked  it  up. 

"  I  guess  that 's  right  enough,"  he  replied  can 
didly,  "  there  is  room  for  a  whole  lot  of  improve 
ment.  If  I  sat  where  you  do  I  'd  fire  every  man 
that  stood  in  the  way  of  it,  too." 

"  That 's  why  I  've  sent  for  you,"  Bucks 
resumed. 

"  Then  drop  the  chinook  talk  and  give  me  my 
time." 

"  You  don't  understand  me  yet,  Dave.  I  want 
you  to  give  up  your  run.  I  want  your  friend, 
Burnes  here,  to  take  your  run " 


316  Held  for  Orders 

A  queer  shadow  went  over  Dave's  face.  When 
Bucks  began  he  was  getting  a  thunderstorm  on. 
Somehow  the  way  it  ended,  the  way  it  was  coming 
about  —  putting  me  into  his  place  —  I,  the  only 
boy  on  the  division  he  cared  "  a  damn  "  about  — 
it  struck  him,  as  it  struck  me,  all  in  a  heap.  He 
could  n't  say  a  word ;  his  eyes  went  out  the  win 
dow  into  the  mountains :  something  in  it  looked 
like  fate.  For  my  part  I  felt  murder  guilty. 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do,  Dave,"  added  Bucks 
evenly,  "  is  to  come  into  the  office  here  with  me 
and  look  after  the  train  crews.  Just  at  present 
I  've  got  to  lean  considerably  on  a  trainmaster,  do 
you  want  the  job  ?  " 

The  silent  conductor  turned  to  stone. 

"The  men  who  own  the  road  are  new  men, 
Dave;  they  didn't  steal  it.  They  bought  it  and 
paid  for  it.  They  want  a  new  deal  and  they  pro 
pose  to  give  a  new  deal  to  the  men.  They  will 
pay  salaries  a  man  can  live  on  honestly ;  they 
will  give  no  excuse  for  knocking  down;  they  want 
what's  coming  to  them,  and  they  propose  the  men 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        317 

shall    have    their   right    share    of  it    in    the    pay 
checks. 

u  But  there  's  more  than  that  in  it.  They  want 
to  build  up  the  operating  force,  as  fast  as  it  can  be 
built,  from  the  men  in  the  ranks.  I  aim  to  make 
a  start  now  on  this  division.  If  you  're  with  me, 
hang  up  your  coat  here  the  first  of  the  month,  and 
take  the  train  crews." 

Dave  left  the  office  groggy.  The  best  Bucks 
could  do  he  could  n't  get  a  positive  answer  out  of 
him.  He  was  overcome  and  could  n't  focus  on  the 
proposition.  Bucks  saw  how  he  had  gone  to  pieces 
and  managed  diplomatically  to  leave  the  matter 
open,  Callahan,  whom  Bucks  had  brought  with 
him  as  assistant,  filling  in  meanwhile  as  trainmaster. 

The  matter  was  noised.  It  was  known  that 
Dave,  admittedly  the  brainiest  and  most  capable  of 
the  Old  Guard  had  been  singled  out,  regardless  of 
his  past  record  for  promotion.  "  I  *m  not  here 
sitting  in  judgment  on  what  was  done  last  year," 
Bucks  had  said  plainly.  "  It 's  what  is  done  this 
year  and  next  that  will  count  in  this  office."  And 


3 1 8  Held  for  Orders 

the  conductors,  thinking  there  was  a  chance,  be 
lieving  that  at  last  if  they  did  their  work  right  they 
would  get  their  share  of  the  promotions,  began  to 
carry  their  lanterns  as  if  they  had  more  important 
business  than  holding  up  stray  fares. 

Meantime  Dave  hung  to  his  run.  Somehow 
the  old  run  had  grown  a  part  of  him  and  he 
could  n't  give  it  up.  When  he  told  Bucks  at  the 
end  of  the  week  that  he  would  like  another  week 
to  make  his  decision  the  superintendent  waved  it 
to  him.  Everybody  began  to  make  great  things 
of  Dave  :  some  of  the  boys  called  him  trainmaster 
and  told  him  to  drop  his  punch  and  give  Tommie 
a  show. 

He  did  n't  take  the  humor  the  way  one  would 
expect.  Always  silent  he  grew  more  than  that; 
sombre  and  dejected.  We  never  saw  a  smile  on 
his  face.  u  Dave  is  off,"  muttered  Henry  Cava- 
naugh,  his  old  baggageman,  "  I  don't  under 
stand  it.  He  Js  off.  You  ought  to  talk  to  him, 
Tommie.  You  're  the  only  man  on  the  division 
can  do  it." 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        3 1 9 

I  was  ordered  west  that  night  to  bring  a  military 
special  from  Washakie.  I  rode  up  on  Dave's 
train.  The  hind  Los  Angeles  sleeper  was  loaded 
light,  and  when  Dave  had  worked  the  train  and 
walked  into  the  stateroom  to  sort  his  collections,  I 
followed  him.  We  sat  half  an  hour  alone  and  un 
disturbed,  but  he  would  n't  talk.  It  was  a  heavy 
train  and  the  wind  was  high. 

We  made  Rat  River  after  midnight,  and  I  was 
still  sitting  alone  in  the  open  stateroom  when  I  saw 
Dave's  green  light  coming  down  the  darkened 
aisle.  He  walked  in,  put  his  lamp  on  the  floor,  sat 
down,  and  threw  his  feet  on  the  cushions. 

"How  's  Tommie  to-night  ? "  he  asked,  leaning 
back  as  if  he  had  n't  seen  me  before,  in  his  old 
teasing  way.  He  played  light  heart  sometimes; 
but  it  was  no  more  than  played:  that  was  easy 
seeing. 

u  How  's  Dave  ?  "  He  turned,  pulled  the  win 
dow  shade  and  looked  out.  There  was  a  moon 
and  the  night  was  bright,  only  windy. 

u  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Bucks,  Dave?  " 


320  Held  for  Orders 

cc  Do  you  want  my  punch,  Tommie  ? " 

"  You  know  better  than  that,  don't  you  ? " 

"  I  guess  so." 

"  You  're  blue  to-night.  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 
He  shifted  and  it  was  n't  like  him  to  shift. 

"  I  'rn  going  to  quit  the  West  End." 

"  Quit  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  're  not 
going  to  throw  over  this  trainmaster  offer  ? " 

u  I  'm  going  to  quit." 

"  What 's  the  use,"  he  went  on  slowly.  u  How 
can  I  take  charge  of  conductors,  talk  to  conduc 
tors  ?  How  can  I  discharge  a  conductor  for  steal 
ing  when  he  knows  I  'm  a  thief  myself  ?  They 
know  it ;  Bucks  knows  it.  There 's  no  place 
among  men  for  a  thief." 

"  Dave,  you  take  it  too  hard ;  everything  ran 
wide  open  here.  You  're  the  best  railroad  man 
on  this  division  ;  everybody,  old  and  new,  admits 
that." 

u  I  ought  to  be  a  railroad  man.  I  held  down  a 
division  on  the  Pan  Handle  when  I  was  thirty 
years  old." 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        321 

<l  Were  you  a  railroad  superintendent  at  thirty  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  trainmaster  at  twenty-seven.  I  'm 
forty-nine  now,  and  a  thief.  The  woman  that 
ditched  me  is  dead:  the  man  she  ran  away  with  is 
dead :  my  baby  is  dead,  long  ago."  He  was  look 
ing  out,  as  he  spoke,  on  the  flying  desert  ashen  in 
the  moonlight.  In  the  car  the  passengers  were  hard 
asleep  and  we  heard  only  the  slew  of  the  straining 
flanges  and  the  muffled  beat  of  the  heavy  truck 
under  us. 

u  There  's  no  law  on  earth  that  will  keep  a  man 
from  leaving  the  track  once  in  a  while,"  I  argued ; 
"  there  's  none  to  keep  him  from  righting  his  trucks 
when  the  chance  is  offered.  I  say,  a  man's  bound 
to  do  it.  If  you  won't  do  it  here,  choose  your 
place  and  I  '11  go  with  you.  This  is  a  big  coun 
try,  Dave.  Hang  it,  I  '11  go  anywhere.  You 
^are  my  partner,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

He  bent  to  pick  up  his  lantern,  "Tommie, 
you  're  a  great  boy." 

"  Well,  I  mean  it."     He  looked  at  his  watch,  I 
pulled  mine  :   it  was  one  o'clock. 
21 


322  Held  for  Orders 

"  Better  go  to  sleep,  Tommie."  I  looked  up 
into  his  face  as  he  rose.  He  looked  for  an  in 
stant  steadily  into  mine.  u  Go  to  bed,  Tommie," 
he  smiled,  pulling  down  his  visor,  and  turning,  he 
walked  slowly  forward.  I  threw  myself  on  the 
couch  and  drew  my  cap  over  my  eyes.  The  first 
thing  I  felt  was  a  hand  on  my  shoulder.  Then  I 
realized  I  had  been  asleep  and  that  the  train  was 
standing  still.  A  man  was  bending  over  me,  lan 
tern  in  hand.  It  was  the  porter. 

"  What 's  wrong  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  There 's  trouble  up  ahead,  Mr.  Burnes,"  he 
exclaimed  huskily.  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  u  Have 
you  got  your  pistol  ?  "  he  stuttered. 

Somebody  came  running  down  the  aisle  and  the 
porter  dodged  like  a  hare  behind  me.  It  was  the 
hind-end  brakeman,  but  he  was  so  scared  he  could 
not  speak.  I  hurried  forward. 

Through  the  head  Los  Angeles  sleeper,  the  San 
Francisco  cars  and  the  Portland  I  ran  without 
meeting  a  living  soul ;  but  the  silence  was  omin 
ous.  When  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  inside  of 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        323 

the  chair  car,  I  saw  the  ferment.  Women  were 
screaming  and  praying,  and  men  were  burrowing 
under  the  foot-rests.  u  They  've  killed  everybody 
in  the  smoker,"  shouted  a  travelling  man,  grabbing 
me. 

"  Damnation,  make  way,  won't  you !  "  I  ex 
claimed,  pushing  away  from  him  through  the  mob. 
At  the  forward  door,  taking  me  for  one  of  the 
train  robbers,  there  was  another  panic.  Passengers 
from  the  smoker  were  jammed  together  there  like 
sardines.  I  had  to  pile  them  bodily  across  the 
seats  to  get  through  and  into  the  forward  car. 

It  was  over.  The  front  lamps  were  out  and 
the  car  smoking  bluish.  A  cowboy  hung  pitched 
head  and  arms  down  over  the  heater  seat.  In  the 
middle  of  the  car  Henry  Cavanaugh,  crouching  in 
the  aisle,  held  in  his  arms  Dave  Hawk.  At  the 
dark  front  end  of  the  coach  I  saw  the  outline  of  a 
man  sprawled  on  his  face  in  the  aisle.  The  news 
agent  crawled  out  from  under  a  seat.  It  must 
have  been  short  and  horribly  sharp. 

They  had  nagged  the  train  east  of  Bear  Dance, 


324  Held  for  Orders 

Two  men  boarded  the  front  platform  of  the 
smoker  and  one  the  rear.  But  the  two  in  front 
opened  the  smoker  door  just  as  Dave  was  hurrying 
forward  to  investigate  the  stop.  He  was  no  man 
to  ask  questions.  He  saw  the  masks  and  covered 
them  instantly.  Dave  Hawk  any  time  and  any 
where  was  a  deadly  shot.  Without  a  word  he 
opened  on  the  forward  robbers.  A  game  cowboy 
back  of  him  pulled  a  gun  and  cut  into  it ;  and  was 
the  first  to  go  down,  wounded.  But  the  train  boy 
said,  Hawk  himself  had  dropped  the  two  head  men 
almost  immediately  after  the  firing  began  and  stood 
free  handed  when  the  man  from  the  rear  plat 
form  put  a  Winchester  against  his  back.  Even 
then,  with  a  hole  blown  clean  through  him,  he  had 
whirled  and  fired  again;  we  found  the  man's  blood 
on  the  platform  in  the  morning,  but,  whoever  he 
was,  he  got  to  the  horses  and  got  away. 

When  I  reached  Dave,  he  lay  in  his  baggage 
man's  arms.  We  threw  the  carrion  into  the  bag 
gage  car  and  carried  the  cowboy  and  the  conductor 
back  into  the  forward  sleeper.  I  gave  the  go- 


The  Trainmaster's  Story        325 

ahead  orders  and  hurried  again  to  the  side  of  the 
last  of  the  Old  Guard.  Once  his  eyes  opened, 
wandering  stonily  5  but  he  never  heard  me,  never 
knew  me,  never  spoke.  As  his  train  went  that 
morning  into  division  he  went  with  it.  When  we 
stopped,  his  face  was  cold.  It  was  up  to  the 
Grand  Master. 

A  game  man  always,  he  was  never  a  cruel  one. 
He  called  himself  a  thief.  He  never  hesitated 
with  the  other  men  high  and  low  to  loot  the  com" 
pany.  The  big  looters  were  financiers  :  Dave  was 
only  a  thief,  yet  gave  his  life  for  the  very  law  he 
trampled  under  foot. 

Thief,  if  you  please ;  I  don't  know  :  we  need  n't 
quarrel  about  the  word  he  branded  himself  with. 
Yet  a  trust  of  money,  of  friendship,  of  duty  were 
safer  far  in  Dave  Hawk's  hands  than  in  the  hands 
of  abler  financiers. 

I  hold  him  not  up  for  a  model,  neither  glory  in 
his  wickedness.  When  I  was  friendless,  he  was 
my  friend  :  his  story  is  told. 


Jimmy  the  Winch 


w:>- 

•|\; 

• 


Held   for  Orders 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story 


JIMMIE  THE  WIND 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story 


JIMMIE   THE   WIND 

THERE  was  n't  another  engineer  on  the 
division  that  dared  talk  to  Doubleday  the 
way  Jimmie  Bradshaw  talked. 
But  Jimmie  had  a  grievance,  and  every  time  he 
thought  about  it,  it  made  him  nervous. 

Ninety-six  years.  It  seemed  a  good  while  to 
wait;  jet  in  the  regular  course  of  events  on  the 
Mountain  Division  there  appeared  no  earlier  pros 
pect  of  Jimmie's  getting  a  passenger  run. 

u  Got  your  rights,  ain't  you  ?  "  said  Doubleday, 
when  Jimmie  complained. 

"  I  have  and  I  have  n't,"  grumbled  Jimmie, 
winking  hard;  "there's  younger  men  than  I  am 
on  the  fast  runs." 


330  Held  for  Orders 

u  They  got  in  on  the  strike ;  you  've  been  told 
that  a  hundred  times.  We  can't  get  up  another 
strike  just  to  fix  you  out  on  a  fast  run.  Hang  on 
to  your  freight.  There's  better  men  than  you  in 
Ireland  up  to  their  belt  in  the  bog,  Jimmie." 

"  It 's  a  pity  they  did  n't  leave  you  there, 
Doubleday." 

"  You  'd  have  been  a  good  while  hunting  for  a 
freight  run  if  they  had." 

Then  Jimmie  would  get  mad  and  shake  his 
linger  and  talk  fast :  u  Just  the  same,  I  '11  have  a 
fast  run  here  when  you  're  dead." 

"  Maybe  ;  but  I  '11  be  alive  a  good  while  yet,  my 
son,"  the  master  mechanic  would  laugh.  Then 
Jimmie  would  walk  off  very  warm,  and  when  he 
got  into  the  clear  with  himself,  he  would  wink  furi 
ously  and  say  friction  things  about  Doubleday  that 
need  n't  now  be  printed,  because  it  is  different. 
However,  the  talk  always  ended  that  way,  and 
Jimmie  Bradshaw  knew  it  always  would  end  that 
way. 

The  trouble  was,  no  one  on  the  division  would 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        331 

take  Jimmie  seriously,  and  he  felt  that  the  ambition 
of  his  life  would  never  be  fulfilled  j  that  he  would 
go  plugging  to  gray  hairs  and  the  grave  on  an  old 
freight  train;  and  that  even  when  he  got  to  the 
right  side  of  the  Jordan  there  would  still  be  some 
thing  like  half  a  century  between  him  and  a  fast 
run.  It  was  funny  to  hear  him  complaining  about 
it,  for  everything,  even  his  troubles,  came  funny  to 
him,  and  in  talking  he  had  an  odd  way  of  stutter 
ing  with  his  eyes,  which  were  red.  In  fact,  Jim 
mie  was  nearly  all  red  ;  hair,  face,  hands  —  they 
said  his  teeth  were  sandy. 

When  the  first  rumors  about  the  proposed  Yel 
low  Mail  reached  the  mountains  Jimmie  was  run 
ning  a  new  ten-wheeler ;  breaking  her  in  on  a 
freight  u  for  some  fellow  without  a  lick  o'  sense  to 
use  on  a  limited  passenger  run,"  as  Jimmie  ob 
served  bitterly.  The  rumors  about  the  mail  came 
at  first  like  stray  mallards,  opening  signs  of  winter, 
and  as  the  season  advanced  flew  thicker  and  faster. 
Washington  never  was  very  progressive  in  the 
matter  of  improving  the  transcontinental  service. 


332  Held  for  Orders 

but  once  by  mistake  they  put  in  a  postmaster- 
general  down  there,  who  would  n't  take  the  old 
song.  When  the  bureau  fellows  that  put  their 
brains  up  in  curl  papers  told  him  it  could  n't  be  done 
he  smiled  softly,  and  sent  for  the  managers  of  the 
crack  lines  across  the  continent,  without  suspecting 
how  it  bore  incidentally  on  Jimmie  Bradshaw's 
grievance  against  his  master  mechanic. 

The  postmaster-general  called  the  managers  of 
the  big  lines,  and  they  had  a  dinner  at  Chamber 
lain's,  and  they  told  him  the  same  thing.  "  It  has 
been  tried,"  they  said  in  the  old,  tired  way ;  "  really 
it  can't  be  done." 

"  California  has  been  getting  the  worst  of  it  for 
years  on  the  mail  service,"  persisted  the  postmaster- 
general  moderately.  "  But  Californians  ought  to 
have  the  best  of  it.  We  don't  think  anything 
about  putting  New  York  mail  in  Chicago  in  twenty 
hours.  It  ought  to  be  simple  to  cut  half  a  day 
across  the  continent  and  give  San  Francisco  her 
mail  a  day  earlier.  Where's  the  fall  down?"  he 
asked,  like  one  refusing  no  for  an  answer. 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        333 

The  general  managers  looked  at  our  representa 
tive  sympathetically,  and  coughed  cigar  smoke  his 
way  to  hide  him. 

"  West  of  the  Missouri,"  murmured  a  Pennsyl 
vania  swell,  who  pulled  indifferently  at  a  fifty-cent 
cigar.  Everybody  at  the  table  took  a  drink  on  the 
expose^  except  the  general  manager  who  sat  at  that 
time  for  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

The  West  End  representative  was  unhappily  ac 
customed  to  facing  the  finger  of  scorn  on  such 
occasions.  It  had  become  with  our  managers  a 
tradition.  There  was  never  a  conference  of  trans 
continental  lines  in  which  we  were  not  scoffed  at 
as  the  weak  link  in  the  chain  of  everything  —  mail, 
passenger,  specials,  what  not  —  the  trouble  was  in 
variably  laid  at  our  door. 

This  time  a  new  man  was  sitting  for  the  line  at 
the  Chamberlain  dinner;  a  youngish  man  with  a 
face  that  set  like  cement  when  the  West  End  was 
trod  on. 

The  postmaster-general  was  inclined,  from  the 
reputation  we  had,  to  look  on  our  man  as  one 


334  Held  for  Orders 

looks  at  a  dog  without  a  pedigree,  or  at  a  dray 
horse  in  a  bunch  of  standard-breds.  But  some 
thing  in  the  mouth  of  the  West  End  man  gave  him 
pause;  since  the  Rough  Riders,  it  has  been  a  bit 
different  with  verdicts  on  things  Western.  The 
postmaster-general  suppressed  a  rising  sarcasm  with 
a  sip  of  Chartreuse,  for  the  dinner  was  ripening, 
and  waited;  nor  did  he  mistake,  the  West  Ender 
was  about  to  speak. 

"  Why  west  of  the  Missouri  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
a  lift  of  the  face  not  altogether  candid.  The  Penn 
sylvania  man  shrugged  his  brows ;  to  explain  might 
have  seemed  indelicate. 

u  If  it  is  put  through,  how  much  of  it  do  you 
propose  to  take  yourself?"  inquired  our  man, 
looking  evenly  at  the  Allegheny  official. 

u  Sixty-five  miles,  including  stops  from  the  New 
York  post-office  to  Canal  Street,"  replied  the  Penn 
sylvania  man,  and  his  words  flowed  with  irritating 
ease. 

"What  do  you  take?"  continued  the  man 
with  the  jaw,  turning  to  the  Burlington  repre- 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        335 

sentative,  who  was  struggling,  belated,  with  an 
artichoke. 

"  About  seventy  from  Canal  to  Tenth  and  Mason. 
Say,  seventy,"  repeated  the  "  Q  "  manager,  with 
the  lordliness  of  a  man  who  has  miles  to  throw  at 
almost  anybody,  and  knows  it. 

u  Then  suppose  we  say  sixty-five  from  Tenth 
and  Mason  to  Ogden,"  suggested  the  West  Ender. 
There  was  a  well-bred  stare  the  table  round,  a  lift 
ing  of  glasses  to  mask  expressions  that  might  give 
pain.  Sixty-five  miles  an  hour?  Through  the 
Rockies? 

The  postmaster-general  struck  the  table  quick 
and  heavily  ;  he  did  n't  want  to  let  it  get  away. 
"Why,  hang  it,  Mr.  Bucks,"  he  exclaimed  with 
emphasis,  u  if  you  will  say  sixty,  the  business  is 
done.  We  don't  ask  you  to  do  the  Rockies  in  the 
time  these  fellows  take  to  cut  the  Alleghenies.  Do 
sixty,  and  I  will  put  mail  in  'Frisco  a  day  earlier 
every  week  in  the  year." 

"  Nothing  on  the  West  End  to  keep  you  from 
doing  it,"  said  General  Manager  Bucks.  He 


336  Held  for  Orders 

had    been    put    up   then   only   about   six   months. 

Ufiut " 

Every  one  looked  at  the  young  manager.  The 
Pennsylvania  man  looked  with  confidence,  for  he 
instantly  suspected  there  must  be  a  string  to  such 
a  proposition,  or  that  the  new  representative  was 
"  talking  through  his  hat." 

"  But  what  ? "  asked  the  Cabinet  member, 
uncomfortably  apprehensive. 

"  We  are  not  putting  on  a  sixty-five  mile  sched 
ule  just  because  we  love  our  country,  you  under 
stand,  nor  to  heighten  an  already  glorious  reputation. 
Oh,  no,"  smiled  Bucks  faintly,  "  we  are  doing  it 
for  c  the  stuff.'  You  put  up  the  money;  we  put 
up  the  speed.  Not  sixty  miles  ;  sixty-five  —  from 
the  Missouri  to  the  Sierras.  No ;  no  more  wine. 
Yes,  I  will  take  a  cigar." 

The  trade  was  on  from  that  minute.  Bucks 
said  no  more  then  ;  he  was  a  good  listener.  But 
next  day,  when  it  came  to  talking  money,  he  talked 
more  money  into  the  West  End  treasury  for  one 
year's  running  than  was  ever  talked  before  on  a 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        337 

mail  contract  for  the  best  three  years'  work  we 
ever  did. 

When  they  asked  him  how  much  time  he  wanted 
to  get  ready,  and  told  him  to  take  plenty,  three 
months  was  stipulated.  The  contracts  were  drawn, 
and  they  were  signed  by  our  people  without  hesita 
tion  because  they  knew  Bucks.  But  while  the 
preparations  for  the  fast  schedule  were  being  made, 
the  government  weakened  on  signing.  Nothing 
ever  got  through  a  Washington  department  with 
out  hitch,  and  they  said  our  road  had  so  often  failed 
on  like  propositions  that  they  wanted  a  test.  There 
was  a  deal  of  wrangling,  then  a  test  run  was  agreed 
on  by  all  the  roads  concerned.  If  it  proved  suc 
cessful,  if  the  mail  was  put  to  the  Golden  Gate  on 
the  second  of  the  schedule,  public  opinion  and  the 
interests  in  the  Philippines,  it  was  concluded,  would 
justify  the  heavy  premium  asked  for  the  service. 

In  this  way  the  dickering  and  the  figuring  be 
came,  in  a  measure,  public,  and  keyed  up  everybody 
interested  to  a  high  pitch.  We  said  nothing  for 
publication,  but  under  Bucks's  energy  sawed  wood 
22 


338  Held  for  Orders 

for  three  whole  months.  Indeed,  three  months  goes 
as  a  day  getting  a  system  into  shape  for  an  extraor 
dinary  schedule.  Success  meant  with  us  prestige; 
but  failure  meant  obloquy  for  the  road  and  for  our 
division  chief  who  had  been  so  lately  called  to 
handle  it. 

The  real  strain,  it  was  clear,  would  come  on  his 
old,  the  Mountain,  division  ;  and  to  carry  out  the 
point,  rested  on  the  Motive  Power  of  the  Mountain 
Division  ;  hence,  concretely,  on  Doubleday,  master 
mechanic  of  the  hill  country. 

In  thirty  days,  Neighbor,  superintendent  of  the 
Motive  Power,  called  for  reports  from  the  division 
master  mechanics  on  the  preparations  for  the  Yel 
low  Mail  run,  and  they  reported  progress.  In 
sixty  days  he  called  again.  The  subordinates  re 
ported  well  except  Doubleday.  Doubleday  said 
merely,  "  Not  ready  "  ;  he  was  busy  tinkering  with 
his  engines.  There  was  a  third  call  in  eighty  days, 
and  on  the  eighty-fifth  a  peremptory  call.  Every 
body  said  ready  except  Doubleday.  When  Neighbor 
remonstrated  sharply  he  would  say  only  that  he 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        339 

would  be  ready  in  time.  That  was  the  most  he 
would  promise,  though  it  was  generally  understood 
that  if  he  failed  to  deliver  the  goods  he  would  have 
to  make  way  for  somebody  that  could. 

The  Plains  Division  of  the  system  was  marked  up 
for  seventy  miles  an  hour,  and,  if  the  truth  were 
told,  a  little  better  ;  but,  with  all  the  help  they  could 
give  us,  it  still  left  sixty  for  the  mountains  to  take 
care  of,  and  the  Yellow  Mail  proposition  was  con 
ceded  to  be  the  toughest  affair  the  Motive  Power  at 
Medicine  Bend  had  ever  faced.  However,  forty- 
eight  hours  before  the  mail  left  the  New  York  post- 
office  Doubleday  wired  to  Neighbor,  u  Ready  "  ; 
Neighbor  to  Bucks,  "  Ready  " ;  and  Bucks  to 
Washington,  "  Ready  "  —  and  we  were  ready  from 
end  to  end. 

Then  the  orders  began  to  shoot  through  the  moun 
tains.  The  test  run  was  of  especial  importance,  be 
cause  the  signing  of  the  contract  was  believed  to 
depend  on  the  success  of  it.  Once  signed,  acci 
dents  and  delays  might  be  explained ;  for  the  test 
run  there  must  be  no  delays.  Despatches  were 


340  Held  for  Orders 

given  the  eleven,  which  meant  Bucks ;  no  lay-outs, 
no  slows  for  the  Yellow  Mail.  Roadmasters  were 
notified  ;  no  track  work  in  front  of  the  Yellow 
Mail.  Bridge  gangs  were  warned,  yard  masters 
instructed,  section  bosses  cautioned,  track  walkers 
spurred  —  the  system  was  polished  like  a  barkeep 
er's  diamond,  and  swept  like  a  parlor  car  for  the 
test  flight  of  the  Yellow  Mail. 

Doubleday,  working  like  a  boiler  washer,  spent 
all  day  Thursday  and  all  Thursday  night  in  the 
roundhouse.  He  had  personally  gone  over  the  en 
gines  that  were  to  take  the  racket  in  the  mountains. 
Ten-wheelers  they  were,  the  1012  and  the  1014, 
with  fifty-six-inch  drivers  and  cylinders  big  enough 
to  sit  up  and  eat  breakfast  in.  Spick  and  span 
both  of  them,  just  long  enough  out  of  the  shops  to 
run  smoothly  to  the  work;  and  on  Friday  Oliver 
Sellers,  who,  when  he  opened  a  throttle,  blew  miles 
over  the  tender  like  feathers,  took  the  1012,  groomed 
like  a  Wilkes  mare,  down  to  Piedmont  for  the  run 
up  to  the  Bend. 

Now  Oliver  Sellers  was  a  runner  in  a  thousand, 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        341 

and  steady  as  a  clock ;  but  he  had  a  fireman  who 
could  n't  stand  prosperity,  Steve  Horigan,  a  cousin 
of  Johnnie's.  The  glory  was  too  great  for  Steve, 
and  he  spent  Friday  night  in  Gallagher's  place  cele 
brating,  telling  the  boys  what  the  1012  would  do  to 
the  Yellow  Mail.  Not  a  thing,  Steve  claimed  after 

o> 

five  drinks,  but  pull  the  stamps  clean  off  the  letters 
the  minute  they  struck  the  foot-hills.  But  when 
Steve  showed  up  at  five  A.M.  to  superintend  the 
movement,  he  was  seasick.  The  minute  Sellers  set 
eyes  on  him  he  objected  to  taking  him  out.  Mr. 
Sollers  was  not  looking  for  any  unnecessary  chances 
on  one  of  Bucks's  personal  matters,  and  for  the  gen 
eral  manager  the  Yellow  Mail  test  had  become  ex 
ceedingly  personal.  Practically  everybody  East  and 
West  had  said  it  would  fail ;  Bucks  said  no. 

Neighbor  himself  was  on  the  Piedmont  platform 
that  morning,  watching  things.  The  McCloud  dc- 
spatchers  had  promised  the  train  to  our  division  on 
time,  and  her  smoke  was  due  with  the  rise  of  the 
sun.  The  big  superintendent  of  Motive  Power, 
watching  anxiously  for  her  arrival,  and  planning  anx- 


342  Held  for  Orders 

iously  for  her  outgoing, glared  at  the  bunged  fireman 
in  front  of  him,  and,  when  Sellers  protested,  Neigh 
bor  turned  on  the  swollen  Steve  with  sorely  bitter 
words.  Steve  swore  mightily  he  was  fit  and  could 
do  the  trick  —  but  what's  the  word  of  a  railroad 
man  that  drinks  ?  Neighbor  spoke  wicked  words, 
and  while  they  poured  on  the  guilty  Steve's  crop 
there  was  a  shout  down  the  platform.  In  the  east 
the  sun  was  breaking  over  the  sandhills,  and  below 
it  a  haze  of  black  thickened  the  horizon.  It  was 
McTerza  with  the  808  and  the  Yellow  Mail. 
Neighbor  looked  at  his  watch  j  she  was,  if  anything, 
a  minute  to  the  good,  and  before  the  car  tinks  could 
hustle  across  the  yard,  a  streak  of  gold  cut  the  sea 
of  purple  alfalfa  in  the  lower  valley,  and  the  nar 
rows  began  to  smoke  with  the  dust  of  the  race  for 
the  platform. 

When  McTerza  blocked  the  big  drivers  at  the 
west  end  of  the  depot,  every  eye  was  on  the  new 
equipment.  Three  standard  railway  mail  cars,  done 
in  varnished  buttercup,  strung  out  behind  the  siz 
zling  engine,  and  they  looked  pretty  as  cowslips. 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        343 

While  Neighbor  vaguely  meditated  on  their  beauty 
and  on  his  boozing  fireman,  Jimmie  Bradshaw,  just 
in  from  a  night  run  down  from  the  Bend,  walked 
across  the  yard.  He  had  seen  Steve  Horigan 
making  a  "  sneak  "  for  the  bath-house,  and  from 
the  yard  gossip  Jimmie  had  guessed  the  rest. 

u  What  are  you  looking  for,  Neighbor  ?  "  asked 
Jimmie  Bradshaw. 

"  A  man  to  fire  for  Sollers  —  up.  Do  you  want 
it  ?  " 

Neighbor  threw  it  at  him  cross  and  carelessly, 
not  having  any  idea  Jimmie  was  looking  for  trouble. 
But  Jimmie  surprised  him;  Jimmie  did  want  it. 

"  Sure,  I  want  it.  Put  me  on.  Tired  ?  No. 
I  'm  fresh  as  rainwater.  Put  me  on,  Neighbor ; 
I  '11  never  get  fast  any  other  way.  Doubleday 
would  n't  give  me  a  fast  run  in  a  hundred  years. 

u  Neighbor,"  cried  Jimmie,  greatly  wrought, u  put 
me  on,  and  I  '11  plant  sunflowers  on  your  grave." 

There  was  n't  much  time  to  look  around;  the 
1012  was  being  coupled  on  to  the  mail  for  the 
hardest  run  on  the  line. 


344  Held  for  Orders 

"  Get  in  there,  you  blamed  idiot,"  roared  Neigh 
bor  presently  at  Jimmie.  "Get  in  and  fire  her; 
and  if  you  don't  give  Sellers  two  hundred  and  ten 
pounds  every  inch  of  the  way  I  '11  set  you  back 
wiping." 

Jimmie  winked  furiously  at  the  proposition  while 
it  was  being  hurled  at  him,  but  he  lost  no  time 
climbing  in.  The  1012  was  drumming  then  at  her 
gauge  with  better  than  two  hundred  pounds.  Adam 
Shafer,  conductor  for  the  run,  ran  backward  and  for 
ward  a  minute  examining  the  air.  At  the  final  word 
from  his  brakeman  he  lifted  two  fingers  at  Sellers; 
Oliver  opened  a  notch,  and  Jimmie  Bradshaw  stuck 
his  head  out  of  the  gangway.  Slowly,  but  with 
swiftly  rising  speed,  the  yellow  string  began  to  move 
out  through  the  long  lines  of  freight  cars  that 
blocked  the  spurs ;  and  those  who  watched  that 
morning  from  the  Piedmont  platform,  thought  a 
smoother  equipment  than  Bucks's  mail  train  never 
drew  out  of  the  mountain  yards. 

Jimmie  Bradshaw  jumped  at  the  work  in  front 
of  him.  He  had  never  lifted  a  pick  in  as  swell 


\  \  \ 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        345 

a  cab.  The  hind  end  of  the  1012  was  big  as 
a  private  car ;  Jimmie  had  never  seen  so  much 
play  for  a  shovel  in  his  life,  and  he  knew  the  trick 
of  his  business  better  than  most  men  even  in 
West  End  cabs,  the  trick  of  holding  the  high  pres 
sure  every  minute,  of  feeling  the  drafts  before  they 
left  the  throttle  ;  and  as  Oliver  let  the  engine  out 
very,  very  fast,  Jimmie  Bradshaw  sprinkled  the 
grate  bars  craftily  and  blinked  at  the  shivering 
pointer,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It 's  you  and  me  now 
for  the  Yellow  Mail,  and  nobody  else  on  earth." 

There  was  a  long  reach  of  smooth  track  in 
front  of  the  foothills.  It  was  there  the  big  start 
had  to  be  made,  and  in  two  minutes  the  bark  of 
the  big  machine  had  deepened  to  a  chest  tone  full 
as  thunder.  It  was  all  fun  for  an  hour,  for  two 
hours.  It  was  that  long  before  the  ambitious  fire 
man  realized  what  the  new  speed  meant :  the  sick 
ening  slew,  the  lurch  on  lurch  so  fast  the  engine 
never  righted,  the  shortened  breath  along  the  tang 
ent,  the  giddy  roll  to  the  elevation  and  the  sud 
den  shock  of  the  curve,  the  roar  of  the  flight  on 


346  Held  for  Orders 

the  ear,  and,  above  and  over  it  all,  the  booming 
purr  of  the  maddened  steel.  The  canoe  in  the 
heart  of  the  rapid,  the  bridge  of  a  liner  at  sea,  the 
gun  in  the  heat  of  the  fight,  take  something  of 
this  —  the  cab  of  the  mail  takes  it  all. 

When  they  struck  the  foothills  Sellers  and  Jim- 
mie  Bradshaw  looked  at  their  watches  and  looked 
at  each  other  like  men  who  had  turned  their  backs 
on  every  mountain  record.  There  was  a  stop 
for  water,  speed  drinks  so  hard,  an  oil  round,  an 
anxious  touch  on  the  journals ;  then  the  Yellow 
Mail  drew  reeling  into  the  hills.  Oliver  eased 
her  just  a  bit  for  the  heavier  curves,  but  for  all 
that  the  train  writhed  frantically  as  it  cut  the  seg 
ments,  and  the  men  thought,  in  spite  of  them 
selves,  of  the  mountain  curves  ahead.  The  worst 
of  the  run  lay  ahead  of  the  pilot,  because  the  art 
in  mountain  running  is  not  alone  or  so  much  in 
getting  up  hill ;  it  is  in  getting  down  hill.  But 
by  the  way  the  Yellow  Mail  got  that  day  up  hill 
and  down,  it  seemed  as  if  Steve  Horigan's  dream 
would  be  realized,  and  that  the  1012  actually 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        347 

would  pull  the  stamps  off  the  letters.  Before  they 
knew  it  they  were  through  the  gateway,  out  into 
the  desert  country,  up  along  the  crested  buttes,  and 
then,  sudden  as  eternity,  the  wheel-base  of  the 
1012  struck  a  tight  curve,  a  pent-down  rail  sprang 
out  like  a  knitting-needle,  and  the  Yellow  Mail 
shot  staggering  off  track  into  a  gray  borrow-pit. 

There  was  a  crunching  of  truck  and  frame,  a 
crashing  splinter  of  varnished  cars,  a  scream  from 
the  wounded  engine,  a  cloud  of  gray  ash  in  the 
burning  sun,  and  a  ruin  of  human  effort  in  the 
ditch.  In  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  the  mail  train  lay 
spilled  on  the  alkali ;  for  a  minute  it  looked  des 
perate  bad  for  the  general  manager's  test. 

It  was  hardly  more  than  a  minute ;  then  like 
ants  out  of  a  trampled  hill  men  began  crawling 
from  the  yellow  wreck.  There  was  more  —  there 
was  groaning  and  worse,  yet  little  for  so  frightful 
a  shock.  And  first  on  his  feet,  with  no  more 
than  scratches,  and  quickest  back  under  the  cab 
after  his  engineer,  was  Jimmie  Bradshaw,  the 
fireman. 


348  Held  for  Orders 

Sellers,  barely  conscious,  lay  wedged  between 
the  tank  and  the  footboard.  Jimmie,  all  by  him 
self,  eased  him  away  from,  the  boiler.  The 
conductor  stood  with  a  broken  arm  directing  his 
brakeman  how  to  chop  a  crew  out  of  the  head 
mail  car,  and  the  hind  crews  were  getting  out  un 
aided.  There  was  a  quick  calling  back  and  forth, 
and  the  cry,  "  Nobody  killed  !  "  But  the  engineer 
and  the  conductor  were  put  out  of  action.  There 
was,  in  fact,  only  one  West  End  man  unhurt  — 
Jimmie  Bradshaw. 

The  first  wreck  of  the  fast  mail,  there  have  been 
worse  since,  took  place  just  east  of  Crockett's  sid 
ing.  A  west-bound  freight  lay  at  that  moment 
on  the  passing  track  waiting  for  the  mail.  Jimmie 
Bradshaw,  the  minute  he  righted  himself,  cast  up  the 
possibilities  of  the  situation.  Before  the  freight 
crew  had  reached  the  wreck  Jimmie  was  hustling 
ahead  to  tell  them  what  he  wanted.  The  freight 
conductor  demurred;  and  when  they  discussed  it 
with  the  freight  engineer,  Kingsley,  he  objected. 
"  My  engine  won't  never  stand  it ;  it  '11  pound  her 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        349 

to  scrap,"  he  argued.     "  I  reckon  the  safest  thing 
to  do  is  to  get  orders." 

"  Get  orders  !  "  stormed  Jimmie  Bradshaw, 
pointing  at  the  wreck.  "  Get  orders  !  Are  you 
running  an  engine  on  this  line  and  don't  know  the 
orders  for  those  mail  bags  ?  The  orders  is  to  move 
'em  !  That 's  orders  enough.  Move  'em  !  Un 
couple  three  of  those  empty  box-cars  and  hustle 
'em  back.  By  the  Great  United  States !  any  man 
that  interferes  with  moving  this  mail  will  get  his 
time,  that 's  what  he  '11  get.  That 's  Doubleday, 
and  don't  you  forget  it.  The  thing  is  to  move  the 
mail,  not  to  stand  here  chewing  about  it ! " 

"  Bucks  wants  the  stuff  hustled,"  put  in  the 
freight  conductor,  weakening  before  Jimmie's  elo 
quence,  u  everybody  knows  that." 

"  Uncouple  there  !  "  cried  Jimmie,  climbing  into 
the  mogul  cab.  "  I  '11  pull  the  bags,  Kingsley ; 
you  need  n't  take  any  chances.  Come  back 
there,  every  mother's  son  of  you,  and  help  on  the 
transfer." 

He  carried  his  points  with  a  gale.     He  was  con- 


350  Held  for  Orders 

ductor  and  engineer  and  general  manager  all  in 
one.  He  backed  the  boxes  to  the  curve  below 
the  spill,  and  set  every  man  at  work  piling  the  mail 
from  the  wrecked  train  to  the  freight  cars.  The 
wounded  cared  for  the  wounded,  and  the  dead 
might  have  buried  the  dead  ;  Jimmie  moved  the 
mail.  Only  one  thing  turned  his  hair  gray ;  the 
transfer  was  so  slow,  it  threatened  to  defeat  his  plan. 
As  he  stood  fermenting,  a  stray  party  of  Sioux  bucks 
on  a  vagrant  hunt  rose  out  of  the  desert  passes,  and 
halted  to  survey  the  confusion.  It  was  Jimmie 
Bradshaw's  opportunity.  He  had  the  blanket  men 
in  council  in  a  trice.  They  talked  for  one  minute  ; 
in  two,  he  had  them  regularly  sworn  in  and  carry 
ing  second-class.  The  registered  stuff  was  jealously 
guarded  by  those  of  the  mail  clerks  who  could  still 
hobble  —  and  who,  head  for  head,  leg  for  leg,  and 
arm  for  arm,  can  stand  the  wrecking  that  a  mail 
clerk  can  stand  ?  The  mail  crews  took  the  regis 
tered  matter;  the  freight  crews  and  Jimmie,  dripping 
sweat  and  anxiety,  handled  the  letter-bags  ;  but  sec 
ond  and  third-class  were  temporarily  hustled  for  the 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        351 

Great  White  Father  by  his  irreverent  children  of 
the  Rockies. 

Before  the  disabled  men  could  credit  their  senses 
the  business  was"  done,  they  made  as  comfortable 
as  possible,  and,  with  the  promise  of  speedy  aid 
back  to  the  injured,  the  Yellow  Mail,  somewhat 
disfigured,  was  heading  again  westward  in  the  box 
cars.  This  time  Jimmie  Bradshaw,  like  a  dog  with 
a  bone,  had  the  throttle.  Jimmie  Bradshaw  for 
once  in  his  life  had  the  coveted  fast  run,  and  till 
he  sighted  Fort  Rucker  he  never  for  a  minute  let 
up. 

Meantime,  at  Medicine  Bend,  there  was  a  des 
perate  crowd  around  the  despatcher.  It  was  an 
hour  and  twenty  minutes  after  Ponca  Station  re 
ported  the  Yellow  Mail  out,  before  Fort  Rucker, 
eighteen  miles  west,  reported  the  box-cars  and 
Jimmie  Bradshaw  in,  and  followed  with  a  wreck 
report  from  the  Crockett  siding.  When  that  end 
of  it  began  to  tumble  into  the  Wickiup  office 
Doubleday's  face  turned  hard;  fate  was  against 
him,  the  contract  gone  glimmering,  and  he  did  n't 


352  Held  for  Orders 

feel  at  all  sure  his  own  head  and  the  roadmaster's 
would  n't  follow  it.  Then  the  Rucker  operator 
began  again  to  talk  about  Jimmie  Bradshaw,  and 
"  Who  's  Bradshaw  ?  "  asked  somebody  ;  and  Ruc 
ker  went  on  excitedly  with  the  story  of  the  mogul 
and  of  three  box-cars,  and  of  a  war  party  of  Sioux 
squatting  on  the  brake-wheels  ;  it  came  so  mixed 
that  Medicine  Bend  thought  everybody  at  Rucker 
Station  had  gone  mad. 

While  they  fumed,  Jimmie  Bradshaw  was  speed 
ing  the  mail  through  the  mountains.  He  had 
Kingsley's  fireman,  big  as  an  ox  and  full  of  his 
own  enthusiasm.  In  no  time  they  were  flying 
across  the  flats  of  the  Spider  Water,  threading  the 
curves  of  the  Peace  River,  and  hitting  the  rails  of 
the  Painted  Desert,  with  the  mogul  sprinting  like 
a  Texas  steer,  and  the  box-cars  leaping  like  year 
lings  at  the  joints.  It  was  no  case  of  scientific  run 
ning,  no  case  of  favoring  the  roadbed,  of  easing  the 
strain  on  the  equipment ;  it  was  simply  a  case  of 
galloping  to  a  Broadway  fire  with  a  Silsby  rotary 
on  a  4-11  call.  Up  hill  and  down,  curve  and 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        353 

tangent,  it  was  all  one.  There  was  speed  made  on 
the  plains  with  that  mail,  and  there  was  speed  made 
in  the  foothills  with  the  fancy  equipment,  but 
never  the  speed  that  Jimmie  Bradshaw  made  when 
he  ran  the  mail  through  the  gorges  in  three  box 
cars  ;  and  frightened  operators  and  paralyzed  sta 
tion  agents  all  the  way  up  the  line  watched  the 
fearful  and  wonderful  train,  with  Bradshaw's  red 
head  sticking  out  of  the  cab  window,  shiver  the 
switches. 

Medicine  Bend  could  n't  get  the  straight  of  it  over 
the  wires.  There  was  an  electric  storm  in  the 
mountains,  and  the  wires  went  bad  in  the  midst  of 
the  confusion.  They  knew  there  was  a  wreck,  and 
understood  there  was  mail  in  the  ditch,  and,  with 
Doubleday  frantic,  the  despatchers  were  trying  to 
get  the  track  to  run  a  train  down  to  Crockett's.  But 
Jimmie  Bradshaw  had  asked  at  Rucker  for  rights  to 
the  Bend,  and  in  an  unguarded  moment  they  had 
been  given  ;  after  that  it  was  all  off.  Nobody  could 
get  action  on  Jimmie  Bradshaw.  He  took  the 
rights,  and  stayed  not  for  stake  nor  stopped  not  for 
23 


354  Held  for  Orders 

stone.  In  thirty  minutes  the  operating  department 
were  wild  to  kill  him,  but  he  was  making  such  time 
it  was  concluded  better  to  humor  the  lunatic  than  to 
hold  him  up  anywhere  for  a  parley.  When  this 
was  decided  Jimmie  and  his  war  party  were  already 
reported  past  Bad  Axe,  fifteen  miles  below  the  Bend 
with  every  truck  on  the  box-cars  smoking. 

The  Bad  Axe  run  to  the  Bend  was  never  done  in 
less  than  fourteen  minutes  until  Bradshaw  that  day 
brought  up  the  mail.  Between  those  two  points  the 
line  is  modeled  on  the  curves  of  a  ram's  horn,  but 
Jimmie  with  the  mogul  found  every  twist  on  the 
right  of  way  in  eleven  minutes ;  that  particular 
record  is  good  yet.  Indeed,  before  Doubleday,  then 
in  a  frenzied  condition,  got  his  cohorts  fairly  on  the 
platform  to  look  for  Jimmie,  the  hollow  scream  of 
the  big  freight  engine  echoed  through  the  mountains. 
Shouts  from  below  brought  the  operators  to  the  upper 
windows  ;  down  the  Bend  they  saw  a  monster  loco 
motive  flying  from  a  trailing  horn  of  smoke.  As  the 
stubby  string  of  freight  cars  slewed  quartering  into 
the  lower  yard,  the  startled  officials  saw  them  from 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        355 

the  Wickiup  windows  wrapped  in  a  stream  of  flame. 
Every  journal  was  afire,  and  the  blaze  from  the 
boxes,  rolling  into  the  steam  from  the  stack,  curled 
hotly  around  a  bevy  of  Sioux  Indians,  who  clung 
sternly  to  the  footboards  and  brake-wheels  on  top 
of  the  box-cars.  It  was  a  ride  for  the  red  men  that 
is  told  around  the  council  fires  yet.  But  they  do 
not  always  add  in  their  traditions  that  they  were 
hanging  on,  not  only  for  life,  but  likewise  for  a  butt 
of  plug  tobacco  promised  for  their  timely  aid  at 
Crockett  siding. 

By  the  time  Jimmie  slowed  up  his  astounding 
equipment  the  fire  brigade  was  on  the  run  from  the 
roundhouse.  The  Sioux  warriors  climbed  hastily 
down  the  fire  escapes,  a  force  of  bruised  and  bare 
headed  mail  clerks  shoved  back  the  box-car  doors, 
the  car  tinks  tackled  the  conflagration,  and  Jimmie 
Bradshaw,  dropping  from  the  cab  with  the  swing 
of  a  man  who  has  done  a  trick,  waited  at  the  gang 
way  for  the  questions  to  come  at  him.  For  a 
minute  they  came  hot. 

"  What  the  blazes  do  you  mean  by  bringing  in 


356  Held  for  Orders 

an  engine  in  that  condition  ?  "  choked  Doubleday, 
pointing  to  the  blown  machine. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  the  mail  ? "  winked 
Jimmie. 

"How  the  devil  are  we  to  get  the  mail  with  you 
blocking  the  track  two  hours  ?  "  demanded  Cal- 
lahan,  insanely. 

"  Why,  the  mail 's  here,  in  these  box-cars,"  an 
swered  Jimmie  Bradshaw,  pointing  to  his  bobtail 
train.  "  Now  don't  look  daffy  like  that ;  every 
sack  is  right  here.  I  thought  the  best  way  to  get 
the  mail  here  was  to  bring  it.  Hm  ?  We  're 
forty  minutes  late,  ain't  we  ? " 

Doubleday  waited  to  hear  no  more.  Orders 
flew  like  curlews  from  the  superintendent  and  the 
master  mechanic.  They  saw  there  was  a  life  for 
it  yet.  Before  the  fire  brigade  had  done  with  the 
trucks  a  string  of  new  mail  cars  was  backed 
down  beside  the  train.  The  relieving  mail  crews 
waiting  at  the  Bend  took  hold  like  cats  at  a  pudding, 
and  a  dozen  extra  men  helped  them  sling  the 
pouches.  The  1014,  blowing  porpoisewise,  was 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        357 

backed  up  just  as  Benedict  Morgan's  train  pulled 
down  for  Crockett's  siding,  and  the  Yellow  Mail, 
rehabilitated,  rejuvenated,  and  exultant,  started  up 
the  gorge  for  Bear  Dance,  only  fifty-three  minutes 
late  with  Hawksworth  in  the  cab. 

"  And  if  you  can't  make  that  up,  Frank,  you  're 
no  good  on  earth,"  sputtered  Doubleday  at  the 
engineer  he  had  put  in  for  that  especial  endeavor. 
And  Frank  Hawksworth  did  make  it  up,  and  the 
Yellow  Mail  went  on  and  off  the  West  End  on  the 
test,  and  into  the  Sierras  for  the  coast,  ON  TIME. 

"  There  's  a  butt  of  plug  tobacco  and  transpor 
tation  to  Crockett's  coming  to  these  bucks,  Mr. 
Doubleday,"  wheezed  Jimmie  Bradshaw  uncer 
tainly,  for  with  the  wearing  off  of  the  strain  came 
the  idea  to  Jimmie  that  he  might  have  to  pay  for 
it  himself.  "  I  promised  them  that,"  he  added, 
"  for  helping  with  the  transfer.  If  it  had  n't  been 
for  the  blankets  we  would  n't  have  got  off  for 
another  hour.  They  chew  Tomahawk,  rough  and 
ready  preferred,  Mr.  Doubleday.  Hm  ?  " 

Doubleday  was  looking  off  into  the  yard. 


358  Held  for  Orders 

u  You  've  been  on  a  freight  run  some  time,  Jim- 
mie,"  said  he  tentatively. 

The  Indian  detachment  was  crowding  in  pretty 
close  on  the  red-headed  engineer.  He  blushed. 
u  If  you  '11  take  care  of  my  tobacco  contract, 
Doubleday,  we'll  call  the  other  matter  square. 
I  'm  not  looking  for  a  fast  run  as  much  as  I 
was." 

"  If  we  get  the  mail  contract,"  resumed  Double- 
day  reflectively,  "  and  it  won't  be  your  fault  if  we 
don't  —  hm  ?  —  we  may  need  you  on  one  of  the 
runs.  Looks  to  me  as  if  you  ought  to  have  one." 

Jimmie  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  want  one, 
don't  mind  me ;  just  fix  these  gentlemen  out  with 
some  tobacco  before  they  scalp  me,  will  you  ?  " 

The  Indians  got  their  leaf,  and  Bucks  got  his 
contract,  and  Jimmie  Bradshaw  got  the  pick  of  the 
runs  on  the  Yellow  Mail, and  ever  since  he's  been 
kicking  to  get  back  on  a  freight.  But  they  don't 
call  him  Bradshaw  any  more.  No  man  in  the 
mountains  can  pace  him  on  a  run.  And  when  the 
head  brave  of  the  hunting  party  received  the  butt 


The  Yellow  Mail  Story        359 

of  tobacco  on  behalf  of  his  company,  he  looked  at 
Doubleday  with  dignity,  pointed  to  the  sandy  en 
gineer,  and  spoke  freckled  words  in  the  Sioux. 

That 's  the  way  it  came  about.  Bradshaw  holds 
the  belt  for  the  run  from  Bad  Axe  to  Medicine 
Bend ;  but  he  never  goes  any  more  by  the  name 
of  Bradshaw.  West  of  McCloud,  everywhere  up 
and  down  the  mountains,  they  give  him  the  name 
the  Sioux  gave  him  that  day  —  Jimmie  the  Wind 


THE    END 


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